


Mitan, Midi

by animal



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ben doesn't speak english, Brat!Rey, Dark Humor, Depressed!Rey, Depression, Dirty Talk, Dissociation, Dom/sub Undertones, F/M, Face-Sitting, Intruder!Ben, Language Barrier, Littleshit!Ben, Praise Kink, Rey Needs A Hug, Smut, Spanking, TW: overdose of a minor character, but she's also funny, casual suicidal ideation, humor will be joining us a lot hopefully, i'm not putting any effort into those tags am I, lots of cooking, no-future lifestyle, south of France more specifically, that's what Ben Solo is for, the smut will be oh là là, they can't speak together but they still try, think again, thought you could get rid of me, welcome to France, yay!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-12
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-08-22 17:54:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 83,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16602782
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/animal/pseuds/animal
Summary: After a French notary contacts Rey to inform her she's inherited a house in the Drôme (France), she decides from one day to the next to quit her job and move there.The house is pretty secluded, there's no service, no internet, no way to reach other people aside from the landline in the living-room.Ideal conditions, by her standards, as those theoretically should allow her to be perfectly alone.Theoretically.





	1. Fuck off, London

**Author's Note:**

> ... I don't know if that's gonna be fun to read, but it should be fun to write. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, I sincerely hope you enjoy it <3

 

A knock on the door. 

 

"Come in."

 

Rey pushes the door open, enters, and closes it behind her. The sounds of hands typing away at keyboards, phones ringing and mindless chit-chats between cubicles fade out. 

 

Meyer's sitting at his desk in his white short-sleeve shirt, slightly turned away from the door. He pivots on his chair and lifts his nose up from his phone. 

"Doriot. What is it?"

 

"Can I have a minute with you?" She asks, standing by the door.

 

"Um, of course."

 

Rey takes a seat in the chair facing her manager's desk. She rapidly looks over the letter she's holding, then hands it to him. 

 

Meyer takes it with a small frown. 

 

"I quit," she comments.

 

He freezes, letter in hand. 

 

She thought maybe her heart would be beating faster, even if just a little bit more than usual, but no, not at all. 

So strange how seemingly important decisions can be made with such ease. She might not even need a whole minute after all, because there isn't much more to say. 

But seeing how Meyer is staring at her, she can safely assume he has a few questions. 

 

Still she doesn't expect his first one to be this: 

"... are you sure?"

 

She blinks.

Then shrugs. 

"Uh, yeah. I'm sure."

 

"You... you---" Meyer sits up and rubs his eyes.

She's been working for eight years for this man, and she hasn't seen him once this confused. 

 

And seeing him confused confuses her. A lot. She didn't think he would care in the slightest. 

 

"Uh..."

He covers his mouth with his hand for a few seconds, reading the letter, before mumbling:

"You're gonna have to bring one of those to HR--"

 

"I already did."

 

"You already did..." He repeats to himself. "Rey ---can I call you Rey?"

 

She's been working for eight years for this man. 

 

"Yes, Meyer, you can call me Rey."

 

"May I ask... why, you're quitting?"

 

She stares blankly at him.

She's completely numb inside, as usual, so calling to mind all the reasons she has to quit is a challenge in and of itself.

Mainly, she quits because she has a really hard time getting up every morning, hence having to do so to sell supposedly organic cough syrups to the ederly doesn't help. 

She always thinks to herself that every day she shows up at work is a day she hasn't thrown herself from her third floor window instead.

She's pondering whether she should tell him that or not, until she realizes he must not be trying to find out  _why_ , as much as why  _now_. 

 

She sighs quietly. 

"Some notary called me yesterday--"

 

" _Some?_ notary?..." he repeats, incredulous.

 

"...to tell me that I apparently have a great-aunt in France... "

 

"... _apparently.._."

 

"Well,  _had_. And apparently she died. Now I have a house there. So... Yeah." She shrugs again. "I'm moving to France."

 

She's aware that her tone is flat, and she'd like to be more  _present_ , animated, anything really, but no matter how much the circumstances require her to care, she doesn't have it in her to behave accordingly. 

She doesn't have enough energy to put on a show. 

To act like this is some life-changing decision when nothing is going on inside her. 

 

The look on Meyer's face is telling. 

"...yesterday?"

 

Rey inhales deeply, narrowing her eyes, then looks up, to try and focus. 

"...was it yesterday? Or two days ago? Uh..."

 

She hesitates, scratching her chin. "Yeah. Yesterday."

 

She zones out for a few seconds. Then scrunches her nose, cocking her head to the side.

"--you know what? Maybe not. Did Lombardi call in sick yesterday, or on Monday? I don't remember."

 

Meyer's disbelief deepens. His eyes narrow some more.

"He called in sick yesterday," he confirms. 

 

"Ah," she nods. "Yesterday then. Got the call at lunch."

 

He lets out a nervous chuckle, rubbing his forehead. 

"Isn't the decision a bit... premature?"

 

Weird how the question sounds rhethorical and genuine at the same time. 

 

She actually takes a few seconds to reflect on that. 

"Yeah," she finally says. "Probably."

 

"Don't you want a bit more time before--"

 

She cuts him off:

"Uh,  _no_ , no need. I won't know what's good for me in a week any more than I do now, so..."

 

"I was more thinking a _month_ , but okay--"

 

He stares at her letter again, without really reading it, because there's nothing to find there that she hasn't told him out loud. But he's not dismissing her, so he's buying some time: what for? Hard to say. 

 

"That's... that's a... dangerous way to live," he ends up saying.

 

She frowns.

"What do you mean?"

 

"I mean that..." A pause. "That's a precarious future you're setting for yourself, don't you think?"

 

Rey's trying. 

 

She's really trying to care, but most times she's only able to vaguely sense that she _should_ care. 

 

 

It hasn't always been like this. 

 

When she was little, she was  _something_. That's what all the adults who would enter in contact with her would say. 

 

Even with the shitty set of cards she was dealt, she was a wild fire, feeling everything intensely -essentially going through life like it really was worth living. 

 

Despite her Momma's addiction. 

Despite not knowing her father, despite the money lacking. 

 

Despite her Momma's overdose when she turned eighteen. 

 

What ends up wearing her out isn't any of those things. 

Until she gets her first solid,  _serious_  job, she still feels like life has a lot to offer. 

 

It's a cold, treacherous realization that rolls over her then, the first weeks she spends doing a nine-to-five while persisting to project all kinds of silly dreams onto the future. 

 

Weeks turn into months. Months turn into years. 

Reality hits her hard. 

 

All this time up to that point, she hung in there with the promise that  _eventually_ , she'd get her piece of the cake. 

The desillusion when she discovers that the cake is a full time office job that barely leaves her the energy to drool over the remote control on the week-ends and that _this is it_ , this is what she'll have to settle for, it doesn't get better than this - _that_ desillusion is unforgiving. 

 

A precarious future. 

Yeah no shit. 

 

She thinks about Devon, a nice boy she meets at a bar when she's twenty, whose relationship with her lasts four years but ultimately doesn't survive her  _desillusion_. 

 

Meanwhile, friends _figure it out_ , get married and move away.

And she can't be bothered to make new ones, preferring to nurse her desillusion instead. 

 

Oh yeah,  _precarious_  could definitely be one way to define her social life. 

 

She spends all of her time outside office hours at her flat.

On her couch, to be more specific.

Living the simple life.

 

...eating whatever's left in the cupboards of her kitchen, until there's really nothing left and she _has_ to go grocery shopping, which obviously she does every now and then but not before starving herself for whatever length of time -because she'd rather go hungry than get out and be around  _people_. 

 

Whatever she does -not much- she does it alone. 

 

She's incapable of making small talk with her colleagues, incapable of flirting with strangers who hit on her -and she can't even face her neighbors, people who have the audacity to be all  _neighbourly_  and come knock on her door to  _include_  her, or some other friendly shit of the kind.

 

When  _that_  happens she just turns the lights of her living-room off and stop moving and breathing completely to be sure that no noise betray her presence -even though it's most likely that they always hear her before they even knock.

 

She wills them away as hard as she can until they do leave. 

All the while muttering things like  _fucking unbelievable_  and _what do they want from me?_ in the dark. 

Can't they just pretend like she's dead? 

That's just her luck, having neighbors who check on her -how fucking  _rude_. 

 

A precarious future. 

She sighs heavily. 

 

"Boo," she starts, because she's quitting so who cares- ".. _.Life_  is precarious. Alright? The sun will burn up the earth one day. There is no point in any of this," she goes on, gesturing to his office around them, "...like,  _none_ , absolutely zero."

 

Funny how the only thing she can get passionate talking about, is that there's no good reason for anyone to be passionate about anything in life ever.

 

"Howany of usget up in the morning to do anything _,_ is a  _mystery_. You're trying to find meaning in me quitting, but what's the point of me working here?"

 

 _She's still using her hands? Damn_.

"There is no point. Life is meaningless, and then one day we die." 

 

Meyer's predictably at a loss for words. 

"...o-kay."

 

"...I'm unhappy here, I'm going to check what it's like to be unhappy in France, and that's it, really."

 

"Wow." 

 

She clasps her hands with another sigh, and gets up. "Okay, so... It was nice knowi---well," she interrupts herself, searching for something more accurate: "--it was nice  _sharing numbers with you_ , and... following your directives, I guess." 

 

He straightens up. "Wait, you can't just leave, we won't transfer you your pay. There's a prior notice to respect---"

 

She cuts him off.

"It's okay, Meyer----Rolland? Can I call you Rolland? What a ball we're having. Keep everything, I don't care. God knows the big chief needs it more than me, right?" She asks, pointing at the ceiling.

"Why don't you give  _him_  the money?"

 

She turns and opens the door.

"Alright, see you."

 

...then walks out of Meyer's office. 

 

How many minutes was that total? Three?

 

She goes straight to her cubicle. 

 

Getting there, though, she winces when she looks at it -at her desk, her computer, her post-its and stapler and organizer ---she's nauseous.  

 

She needs to go  _now_. 

 

So she leaves everything as it is. 

 

Putting her jacket on, she sees Meyer standing in the doorway of his office, looking at her, clearly still confused but also resigned already, somehow. 

 

She glances around. 

 

Her colleagues are on the phone, or writing emails, or whatever the fuck, and no one is really paying attention to her. She won't be missed. 

  

She walks up to the lift, and doesn't look back. 

 

 

Fuck off, London. 

 

Bonjour la Drôme. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [A heart that's full up like a landfill / A job that slowly kills you / Bruises that won't heal](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=u5CVsCnxyXg)


	2. A sense of humor

 

At no point was she expecting to have an epiphany moving to France. 

No, most definitely not.

 

And she's not expecting life to get any better either, that much is clear in her head.

Her plan never went beyond getting her job out of the way to go live somewhere deserted, silent and sunny, then very gradually spend all the money she saved through the years on food and electricity, until --

\--until nothing, that's as far as she's planned this. 

 

She googles  _Rochefourchat_  the same day she receives the call giving her the news that she now owns a house there. 

 

The commune counts one inhabitant. 

 

 _One_.

 

Not a joke. 

 

According to Google, he's not even a permanent resident. 

 

Obviously they were two living there, before Louise Doriot, her great-aunt, passed away. 

 

The...  _village_ , is situated in the southeastern part of France.

 

She's never been to France, -she's in fact never been outside of the U.K. - but the images on her computer screen basically show several types of  _green_ , green everywhere.

 

The climate is said to be warm, mostly, at least at that period of the year she should expect it to be warm.

 

She'll have to walk for an hour and a half to get to the next commune -or should she say, to the next neighbor.

Basically a pure nightmare. 

Perfect.  

 

 

It takes three months to settle everything. It would have taken her less time, if not for her unability to get out of her flat or gather enough energy to do the most simple tasks.

 

She leaves almost everything she owns to her landlord in exchange of her deposit.

 

Her suitcase is big, and she puts as much as she can inside. Clothes, three books, the essential oils she's always meant to use but never did, her laptop -and that's pretty much it.  

 

Meanwhile, she does expect to have  _a moment_. 

 

A moment where she'll feel some sort of  _thrill_ , for lack of better word. 

 

She doesn't know when it'll come, but she's sure that at some point --somewhere between giving her one-month notice to her landlord, buying the plane ticket, doing what's necessary to get her first-ever passport done, organizing the meeting with the french notary in charge of her file, embarking for her flight, being on the fucking plane, landing at the Marseille-Provence Airport, looking at the french countryside through the train window, getting in a cab in Montélimar-- her stomach will drop at a random and inopportune time and she'll think to herself:  _holy shit._  

 

_Holy shit, I'm moving to France._

 

_I don't know anyone there, and I don't even speak French. I'm hopeless and helpless._

 

But nope.

 

Nothing.

 

She does all that - _she moves from London to France_ \- without once fully realizing how irresponsible she's being.

 

She just confusely  _senses_  that she is; that she should shit herself at least a little bit, but that's it. 

 

In a sense, she even tries to make it happen. She thinks to herself  _isn't what I'm doing completely insane?_

 

But it doesn't click.

 

Her eyes are opened, and she walks, she speaks, breathes, but no one's home. 

 

On the train to Montélimar, she's yet to see the exact kind of countryside Google promised her. 

 

So far the south of France looks a lot like... Italy?

\--meaning what she's always imagined Italy was like, anyway. 

 

She sees clothes hanging from the windows, pastel green shutters on pastel pink facades, bell towers standing in a sea of coral rooftiles; she passes small villages, farms, greenhouses.

 

The train is almost empty, when she takes it. Southern French people scowl in silence when alone.

 

If an acquaintance join them, then they're  _loud_. God they're loud. 

 

Like...  _Italians?_  

 

It doesn't help that she can't understand shit. The only thing worse than people barking are people barking in a foreign language. 

 

The drive in her taxi to the house is uneventful. 

 

And she's busy taking in everything she sees. 

 

Hills, green hills everywhere. Green fields, furrowed fields. Olive trees, and other trees she doesn't recognize, much taller, standing alone or in groups.

 

The more they drive, the fewer the houses. 

 

Here a lot of houses don't have facades, the walls are of exposed white stones.

 

Like hers, she finds out soon. 

 

 _Fuck_. 

 

She's seen pictures of it, obviously. But it's something else to see it in person. 

 

This is  _not_  a big house. Let's say that France has seen bigger houses. 

 

But it's free. Also, she can't give any fuck, she has none. So. 

 

The notary she's supposed to meet is late.

 

She waits sitting on the ground her back against the wall near the frontdoor, in the sun. 

 

No service.

She's not surprised.

Hopefully there's a landline in there. 

 

The Fiat progresses very slowly in her very uneven driveway thirty minutes later, just like her taxi did. 

 

The man's accent is...  _holy shit_.

She squints her eyes while trying to understand what he says to her. 

 

She has difficulties focusing and listening to people, so his accent doesn't help. His instructions and comments as they go around the house are a bit of a blur. 

"Here are the keys!"

"The electricity hasn't been turned off, actually, so you might want to check the freezer, there must be food in it. We left everything as is. Well... no, we unplugged the fridge."

"See, you have a small cellar,  _mignon, non?_ "

"The whole land here, up to the small path all the way over there -I don't know if you see it? It's yours. You can check on the map, page three."

 

Small living-room, one bedroom, one bathroom. And she's got a cellar. 

 

Filled from the ground to the ceiling with bottles of wine.

French and their priorities. 

 

Every piece of furniture looks old-as-fuck, and they clearly have been made for very small people. Not that she cares. 

 

At least there are the essentials. A couch, an armchair, a round wooden table in the living-room, another one hidden under the sunflowers of a tablecloth in the kitchen. China plates fixed on the walls everywhere.

 

And a shit-ton of creepy porcelain dolls on the telly, the console, the three shelves above the couch. With bells around their necks. 

Was Louise summoning Satan during her free time? 

 

The whole place needs to be cleaned up. 

She discerns a spot of a lighter color on the floor tile near the couch, and Boyer -the notary- follows her eyes.

 

"Ah!" He nods. "There was an armchair here, before. This is... where..." He affects a pained expression: "dear Madame Doriot passed away. We took the liberty to dispose of it."

 

"Of the body?"

 

Boyer's eyes widen. He stammers: "N--non, Mademoiselle, of the armchair."

 

"I'm kidding, don't worry."

 

He's visibly relieved.

"Ha-ha... the famous British sense of humor," he comments dryly, "---excellent."

 

When they get back out, the singing of the cicadas is deafening. Boyer tells her that they're singing exceptionnally early this year, because the weather is, in turn, exceptionnally warm already. 

 

"Do you have any idea of where I could find a supermarket around here?"

 

Boyer searches for any sign of sarcasm on her face, before taking his time to break the news to her: 

"Non, Mademoiselle, I have no idea, I'm sorry. I don't live here, I live and work in Orange," he informs her, because that's a city here apparently, not a color, and he adds as an afterthought: "That's why I was so late, I got lost."

 

Rey clears her throat.

" _Neat_."

 

He leaves her on those words. 

 

And just like that, she's alone. 

 

 

Not once in her life has she had that much time on her hands. It's dizzying. 

 

She can do anything. Anything she wants, anything at all.

 

Eat when she wants -at four in the afternoon, at two in the morning. Sleep during the day, be wide awake at night.

Obsess over each and every one of her failures, over what could have been, over what others in her situation would have achieved--

 

\--and spend hours imagining what the people she used to know would think of her now, if they could see her. 

 

Oh yeah she's got a lot on her plate. 

 

What she would limit to the week-ends back in London, she can now do freely all day long, seven days a week. 

 

Still, the first day, she seriously thinks to herself:  _I'm gonna clean this house, I'm gonna fix what needs to be fixed, I'm gonna snoop and find things about myself. I'm gonna enjoy the countryside, walk up those hills, nap in the sun, get a sunburn, nap under a tree, I'm gonna feel at peace._

 

And then, very predictably, she does none of those things. 

 

If anything, she turns the whole place upside down.

She does snoop around enough to find out that she has food, an indecent amount of it.

Cans, jars, coffee, sugar, jam, mint, basil, herbs of all kinds essentially, rice, pasta.

 

She opens the biggest freezer she's ever seen in her life down in the cellar, and discovers all kinds of bread in there, meals, cheeses and vegetables packed up in plastic bags and Tupperware boxes with labels on them.

 

_Pistou, Bleu, Artichaud, Magret, Courgette, Tarte au citron, Beurre._

 

She eats whatever she finds. 

 

She's got appetite, but all the motivation she used to have to cook proper meals when she was as young as fifteen, is long gone. 

 

After playing coy for three days because the place felt foreign, she takes back the habit of walking around in a t-shirt and panties, and zones out for hours on the couch.

 

She eats there, then leaves the plates on the ground, scattering them meal after meal all around the couch, until there's none left in the kitchen cupboards and she has to at least wash one -unless she can help it and eat in the pan, or just eat the remaining, dry bread with nothing else. 

 

She must be sleeping a total of fourteen hours a day. 

 

She takes one shower a week.

She used to take three showers a week in London, so no progress on that. 

 

Not that it's terrible news. No one's here to smell her.

 

Louise was a sort of hoarder, she thinks.

This, or her great-aunt sensed she was going to die and her long lost niece would move here, because the whole place is packed with soaps, toothpastes, laundry detergents and other household products, along with all the food. 

 

Looks like Louise was prepared for a third world war. 

 

 

So Rey won't have to spend her money for... she doesn't know how long, but a good while, seems like. 

One month into this new life, and she discovers that this is actually one of the things she obsesses the most about now. 

 

Her money. 

 

Most specifically, the idea of having saved all that money, for virtually nothing.

 

She'll never make anything of it. 

 

Naturally what hides behind those thoughts aren't a real preoccupation for the money itself. Even her useless brain allows her to be aware of that, deep down. 

 

 

She feels closer to Louise by the day. 

 

She didn't even ask Boyer how she was found, or who found her. What was the cause of her death. 

_Where she's buried._

 

Rey hardly ever had anyone, turns out she had a french great-aunt. What a fucking joke her life is.

In the end, she's not even that curious about it. 

 

 _Why did she come here, why did she really come here?_  At times that question pops up in her head, and she ignores it hard.

The hardest she can. 

 

 

Almost two months in, and she hasn't even bothered to check the whole property yet. 

 

That changes one glorious morning. 

After staying inside for a whole week straight, struck by God-knows-what sort of spell, she breathes in and breathes out -and decides to go for a walk. 

 

The place is... magical, she has to admit.

So she feels even more guilty for spending all of her days inside. 

 

The wind blows, the sun shines hard, the trees gently waves at her, and those very simple things feel very  _surreal_. 

 

She walks far past her property, and she pushes down the bizarre hope that she'll get lost. 

 

At some point, she lies down under a tree in the grass, just like she thought she'd do every day, and falls asleep. 

 

The sun wakes her up. 

She grunts, rolls over. Her face burns, and she's got a headache. 

 

Great.

 

How long has she been asleep? 

As soon as she asks herself that, another voice breaks it down for her.

 

_Who cares?_

 

 _What difference will that_ ever _make?_

 

_... fall asleep and never wake up, if you want. No one will object to it. Not even you._

 

It hurts a bit.

Dimly, somewhere in her. 

 

Tt hurts that she's just now realizing she's not any more lonely  _here_ , at a very isolated and deserted location, where she can't speak to most people, than she was back in London surrounded by well-meaning colleagues, friends and neighbors. 

 

It seems that no matter how she plays her cards, she'll end up alone.

 

What  _was_  she expecting coming here?

 

 

After hours spent mulling over how much of a lonely bitch she's always been, though, she finds _a stranger sitting on her couch_ when she comes back home -and she's pretty sure she locked the house before leaving. 

 

She sure wasn't expecting  _that_.

 

 

A bunch of Gods must be mocking her somewhere.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [It's a place that looks a lot like Louisiana/ Like Italia / The sheets are hanging on the terrace / How pretty ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k4poZAZPiiE)
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> [Here's where Rey lives](https://www.google.fr/maps/@44.5981708,5.246703,3a,60y,37.07h,86.15t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1snoQq4aBuGm2hcI9vlF9IKw!2e0!7i13312!8i6656), if you're curious =)


	3. Minor details

 

To say that Rey is distracted would be an understatement. Her focus is a fleeting thing. 

 

Still, how distracted must one be, to not even shrug when the front door locked three hours earlier isn't locked anymore?

She could have at least frowned and thought to herself: _weird, I thought I closed it._

 

In her defense, there's no sign of a forced entry.  _That_  she would have paid attention to. 

 

She does most things without thinking, on autopilot. Multiple times she's driven from one location to another, only to realize she couldn't remember a single moment of the drive. It's happened more than she cares to admit.

She leaves her body. Frequently. 

 

So coming back to an open door isn't enough to make her raise an eyebrow. 

 

In this case, though, she  _doesn't even notice it's open_.

Meaning that she doesn't even get her key out, and just strolls in, lost in whatever obsession is assaulting her mind at the moment. 

 

That's how far she's gone. 

 

She just enters her very silent home, turns on the light in the hallway, sighs like she's coming back from a forty-eight hours shift at the hospital, and drags her feet to the kitchen. 

 

To get there, she crosses her living-room.

The shutters of the French doors are closed, but the kitchen window just above the sink doesn't have shutters, just bars, and since the kitchen's open to the living-room, and the sun shines bright, it lights up the room quite enough for her to leave everything as it is.

 

But if she's being honest, she doesn't open the shutters a lot ---or really ever.

Her bedroom's window has bars too, so she closes the curtains to keep the sun from getting in, and leave them that way too. 

 

She bends and drinks from the tap, then looks in the distance through the window.

 

She's not really looking at anything in particular, she's just zoning out once more. 

 

At some point she thinks to herself that it's been an hour at least since her last nap, and that she wouldn't mind napping some more. 

 

That's when she finally sees him.  

 

She gets out of the kitchen, stopping in her tracks several feet away from the couch.

 

She chokes awkwardly on whatever sound her throat was ready to produce, while he remains perfectly silent. 

 

There it is, she thinks. Psychotic depression -of course. That was the next logical step. 

 

He's not moving at all, and she isn't either, and his eyes are fixed on hers.

 

The only difference between them two, is that he's sitting. But he's not relaxed, not at all. 

Apparently he wasn't expecting her.

 

How funny: _this is her fucking house._

 

Yes, it does cross her mind at first that she must be imagining him. The idea doesn't stand long, though. Minor details come into play that makes him feel very real. 

 

He's very well dressed. Even in the dark she can tell the fabric of his pants is very soft, the light grey matching the vest folded right next to him.

Must be an expensive suit.

His shirt is white, his tie black, and his shoes look very expensive too. 

 

That alone is unsettling.

 

She suspects intruders don't usually wear suits to break into people's homes. 

 

 _That alone_ , though, isn't what set off the -timid- alarm in her brain. 

 

Sure, he's wearing a nice suit.

But also, he's ruined it.

 

There's dirt along the side of his right leg, from his calf to his hip. He fell, looks like.

His shoes are covered in dirt too -particularly the one on his right foot.

 

His white shirt presents two enormous sweat stains under his armpits, and another smaller one in the front, on his chest. His tie is loose.

 

His cheeks are a bit red, and some of his dark hair stick to his temples. His fists are clenched on his thighs.

 

She then sees the black sports bag at his feet. 

 

Last but not least, she registers his size.

 

He almost dwarfs the couch. 

 

_The fucking couch._

 

\--granted, it's not the biggest couch, but  _fuck_. 

 

Upon that realization, she thinks to herself that she  _really_  should be scared. He's a buffalo, this man. He just looks  _heavy_. Heavy muscles protected by healthy layers of fat. If he were to catch her, she'd be done. 

 

_Fuck._

 

She waits a few seconds.

For the fear to kick in. The rational part of her brain remarks that she should be scared -that she should scream, run, attack,  _anything_.

Yet as usual, she's only capable of standing there.

 

She's not  _in there_  anymore. It feels like she's just right by her body. Very close by, but not in it. 

  

Eventually, a tentative sound comes out of her mouth, making the situation that much more surreal. 

 

"...h-hello?"

 

 _She_   _greets him_. 

 

God, can she be any more  _british_? 

 

At that, he slowly and deeply inhales, his shirt straining as he blocks his ribs for a moment.

 

Other than that, he doesn't move. 

Maybe trying to assess what to do next. 

 

She should really fear for her safety, insists her brain. 

 

"You're ---you're in my house," she kindly informs him, breaking the silence once more. 

 

Once more, he doesn't answer. Just blinks at her. 

 

Then, she shuts her eyes  _hard_.

Almost two months spent completely alone have been enough for her to forgot that she's in France. 

_Where French people live._

 

Chances are that that man can't speak English, even if he cared to speak at all. Which means he doesn't understand it.

 

She opens her eyes, looking over at the fixed phone that's sitting on the dresser, a few feet away from her on her right. 

 

When she looks back at him, she sees that he's followed her gaze, and now his eyes are back on her, leaving no room for doubt that he's understood her intentions. 

He remains immobile. 

 

She steps once to the side, testing the waters. 

 

He visibly tenses, but still doesn't make any concrete move. 

 

Her heart is beating faster. Finally joining the party. 

 

She takes another step.

His eyes just widen slightly, but he's otherwise still as a brick. 

 

She's next to the phone a second later, her eyes still on him. 

 

She delicately seizes the handset, bringing it closer to her face. 

Then clears her throat. 

 

"I'm going to call the police, if you don't leave."

 

Wow.

 

What a threat.

 

As if he couldn't just walk up to her, send her into space with a punch and call it a day -at this point, though, she's really looking for any reaction at all. 

 

She spoke slowly, but that won't make him understand her any better.

 

She's not worried, though, because she knows very well that  _police_  is one of those words French and English speakers share -not only that, but it's the same pronunciation. 

 

If there was any doubt he understood, his face says it all. 

 

Also, he does her the honor to finally speak. Hesitantly.

 

"...n-non. Non, pas la police, s'il-vous-plaît."

 

She doesn't speak French, but she got the idea.

 

Predictably, he doesn't want her to call the police.

That's good, that was the plan.

 

She  _also_  doesn't want French police officers in her house. All she wants is for him to be gone. 

 

His tone is relatively soft, even if his voice is way too deep to make it reassuring. Still, it almost turns his objection into a suggestion. 

_You might want to consider not calling the police, Mademoiselle, just a thought._

 

If she chooses to actually make an attempt at scaring him away - _good luck_ \- she should at least try her best and speak firmly. 

 

But she's on edge, and too gone at the same time, to commit to it. 

 

"Yes," she nods, in very threatening way, "the _police_ , I'm going to call the police. Please leave."

 

It dawns on her then. 

 

_She doesn't know the fucking number._

 

She was hoping she wouldn't actually have to call the police, but even if she wants to, now,  _she can't_ , because she's the  _dumbest bitch who's ever walked the planet---_

 

She hopes her face doesn't give anything away, while for further self-loathing she also mentally notes that, in fact, she doesn't have the number of fucking anyone in this country, except for her notary.

 

How stupid can someone be? 

 

 _But come on!_  She internally whines. It's _France_ , it's the countryside, it's the  _French countryside!_  

That type of things never happens around here, _she decided that_.

 

She's been standing there for several seconds, the phone in her hand, and she hasn't done a single move to dial anything, and he's noticed that. 

 

She watches in horror as he slowly raises to his feet, almost stepping on a plate she left on the ground. 

 

He's, he's----tall, that's--

 _\--that's way too tall_ , she mentally stammers. 

 

Not only that, but it's happening -he's slowly advancing toward her now. 

 

She quietly gulps, not moving an inch. 

 

He comes to a stop at arm's length, looking down at her.

 

If he decides it, he can bash her head in at any moment.

 

And in retaliation, she can... look up at him with the phone in her hand. 

 

"N'appelez pas la police," she hears him say, just as softly as before.

 

He reaches for the handset, with very slow movements, and delicately takes it from her. 

 

\---while she lets him. Naturally.

 

"Um..." she very eloquently interjects.  

 

He sets it back down on its base, with great tact. Her heart is pounding, monopolizing her attention, althought she distractedly notices his nails are dirty. 

 

Then, he takes the whole phone in his hands, carefully rolling the cord around one of them--

 

And pulls sharply on it, with all his strength.

 

One time, two times, three times. 

 

Having her flinch each times with wide eyes--

 

-until the cord gives way and breaks, renderring the device useless. 

 

He huffs from the effort.

 

 

Then  _cautiously_  puts it back down where he found it. 

 

 

"Pas de police."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You are and you remain impossible to tame / One day finally will you let yourself be tamed?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XPNQyhA-HIU)


	4. Grown adults

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You don't need to understand what Ben says to appreciate the story, but for those of you who are curious, everything is translated in the end notes. 
> 
> I hope you'll like it  
> Thank you so much for reading <3

 

Rey isn't a very perceptive person. She used to be, but she hasn't been for a while. She constantly forgets people's name, forgets what they look like, mixes them up, forgets why she enters a room. She has trouble paying attention to simple clues around her.

At work, she called Eric  _Eric_  for a whole year, before Sabina sighed and sharply told her that his name was Marc. 

 

Marc.

_How?_

 

When she asked Eri-- _Marc_ why he hadn't corrected her, he told her that he did, the first month he started working with her -five times, and then he just gave up. 

 

She's clueless, but even she can tell that five is a lot. 

 

When Rose told her about her grandmother's death, Rey just patted her shoulder awkwardly. 

 

She's... detached.

From the others -and from herself. 

 

She's still very much emotional about things that aren't worth it, though.

She cried for a solid forty-five minutes one time, because she couldn't find any battery for her remote control.

 

It's true, that, when she does feel, she feels deeply. 

Normally, feeling deeply has benefits that come with it: it should makes someone more discerning, insightful -intuitive. Emotions guide people in doing what needs to be done, in having the appropriate reaction to certain events.  

Not for her. Her emotions usually overflow out of nowhere and disorient her completely. 

 

Grown adults become more attuned to their emotions with time and through experience -they identify them better too. 

 

Most of the time, Rey doesn't know how she feels about something, or why she feels the way she does. 

 

Needless to say she has trouble reading other people's reactions even in the most simple situations. 

 

One can imagine that her present circumstances -alone in a foreign country in presence of someone who's entered her home without being invited- confuse the shit out of her.

 

She could spend hours trying to make sense of what's happening without succeeding. 

 _His tone is soft_. But he broke the phone. 

 _He's wearing a suit --_ -but it's covered in dirt. 

 

In the short silence that follow his few words -pas de police-, her body goes rigid, and her wide eyes slowly go back up on his face.

Faintly, she notices his breath is a bit shaky, and his eyes are reddish and half closed, pupils blown. 

 

As if he didn't have the energy to be alert, but needed to be.

 

And now, her heart is hammering in her chest -as if her body was responding to the situation, but her brain was still dormant somehow. 

They must not remain silent for more than five seconds, five seconds during which he doesn't make a single move to harm her, she notes -but, he's quite close, and he must weigh something like ninety kilos, if not more.

 

Rey is a woman. She spent twenty-eight years on this earth as a woman. And she's taken the tube, countless times in fact.

Alone. At night. 

Men have followed her before. Men have threatened her. She's been groped and grabbed. 

 

Depression or not, she supposes that some habits never die, no matter the context. 

 

Without warning, she gradually opens her mouth wide, watching as he frowns slightly, then sticks her tongue all the way out. 

She then proceeds to deliver something that's half way between a gargle and a groan. She brings her jaw forward, lower teeth gnawing her upper lip, and rubs her ear against her shoulder, grunting, drooling, before jerking her whole upper body side to side as if she was convulsing, growling like a dog, eyes rolled back. 

 

It lasts fifteen seconds at most. Rose would be proud of her. 

 

When Rey stops, panting a bit, she sees that he's stepped all the way back to the couch, standing next to it his back to the wall. He's frowning, his shoulders are slightly up, and she thinks she hears him mutter something under his breath.

 

"... _tarée_." 

 

She nods once, satisfied. 

 

Better. 

 

Clearing her throat, she pushes the hair away from her face, tucking them behind her ear.  

She appreciates the illusion of control, even though she's still in close quarter with a man of a towering height and no means to get immediate help.

If nothing else, she's got the confirmation that he's not exactly the type to go for the throat. For her throat at least. 

 

That's all her heart needs to calm down somewhat.  

 

He huffs quietly, then straightens up, his eyes still on her.

 

Warily, he starts shuffling sideways in direction to the kitchen, passing past her without turning his back to her, crossing the living-room. Her eyes don't leave him, and she resists flinching when he passes her. 

 

In the kitchen, he walks around the table, to get to the counter near the sink.

His hand reaches for the Moka pot. 

 

She frowns, narrowing her eyes. 

 

What the fuck is he doing? 

 

He unscrews the top part carefully, and puts it down. He looks around, then up, before approaching the shelves near the fridge. The bags of flour there are hesitantly pushed aside so he can grab the coffee jar.

Meanwhile, she just stares at him, her arms at her sides, bewildered, watching as he opens a drawer, then a second, then a third, before finally finding the spoon he was looking for.

 

_What the fuck?_

 

He turns to her then. 

 

"Où... où sont les tasses?"

 

She blinks at him.

What. 

"I don't speak French, pal."

 

But then, as she says that, he points at the Moka pot, then mimics the act of drinking, cupping his hand to his mouth as if he was holding a glass -rectifying the performance almost right away by joining together the tips of his fingers with the exception of his pinkie, that he keeps in the air. 

 

Cups. 

 

She stepped closer without even realizing it. 

 

And she's properly scowling now. 

 

Yet, this is what comes out of her mouth: 

"The cupboard on your right."

 

He stares at her. 

 

_Right._

She represses a sigh, her lips pressed tightly, and points at the cupboard. 

 

He turns on his right, opens the cupboard. The cups are on the third shelf. 

But he goes for two small glasses from the first shelf.

 

For some reason, she steps into the kitchen: 

"No... there are  _cups_ , here," she starts, before stopping in her tracks ---what the fuck is she saying? 

"---I mean," she says while shaking her head, turning to him, "-I mean: leave my house."

 

But he pays no attention to her and pours water from the tap into the boiler of the Moka pot. 

When he sees the state of her sink -the dirty dishes in it, the greasy water stagnating at the bottom of it, he glances at her. It's furtive, but she can tell he's judging her. 

Fucking unbelievable. 

 

"What?" She spits, trying to convey as much irritation as she can. 

He ignores her, and installs the Moka pot on the stove. 

 

She checks the driveway through the window. 

Where's his car, she wonders, as if there weren't more pressing matters at hand. 

 

She looks back at him just as he's about to sit at the table, putting down the glasses, but he stops and winces. 

What now? 

 

Her mouth slowly opens in disbelief as he drags the pad of his finger on the plastic tablecloth, and winces some more at the greasy layer he finds on it as a result .

The nerve. 

 

"I'm  _sorry_ ," she bristles, "not clean enough for you? Why not check the next house, see if the hygiene meets your standards?" 

 

He ignores her -again- and walks straight to the sink, reaching for the sponge. The second he grabs it, he lets it go with a slight jump. 

The sponge, like the rest, is downright gross. One can barely guess its former color. She feels her cheeks heat up. 

 

"Dégueulasse," he mutters. 

 

She clenches her jaw and looks away, ashamed.

 

Fuck. _How?_ She shouldn't be. 

 

Fucking asshole. 

 

She crosses her arms and tries to burn through him with her stare, but he's still not looking at her.

 

Instead, he crouches in front of the cupboard under the sink and opens it. 

There, he finds a brand new sponge. 

 

"This is fucking surreal," she says out loud to herself. 

He stands up and looks at her, searches her face for a second or two while wetting the sponge and generously squirting dishwashing liquid on it.

 

He's not unfazed by her discomfort, and he doesn't show any trace of annoyance at her obvious irritation. He's carefully impassive. 

 

 

He swipes the sponge on the tablecloth once, and stops. 

Visibly stunned by what he sees. 

Just like she is. 

 

The sunflower he cleaned is of a bright yellow, and they can see now just how grey the other ones look. 

 

Holy shit. It didn't look that dirty. 

 

Now she's really hurt.

She swallows. 

"I arrived... three days ago," she lies, despite him not understanding anything. "The house already needed cleaning..."

Looking for excuses. 

Properly surreal. 

 

She huffs, crossing her arms more tightly on her chest.

 

He looks at her with an expression that leads her to believe he's trying to figure her out, but the hiss of the Moka pot interrupts him. 

 

With a glance back down at the tablecloth, he assesses the situation. 

Then takes it off the table and lets it drop to the ground, shrugging. 

 

He walks over to the Moka pot, turns off the gas, then grabs the metallic box on the second shelf near the fridge, opening it, before nodding when he sees cubes of sugar in it. 

 

Ten seconds later, the two coffees are served with their spoons, the metallic box between them, and he sits down.

He huffs a deep sigh, rubbing his face. 

He's exhausted, she can tell that much. 

 

Maybe he just needs a coffee before going back on the road? 

 

Begrudgingly, she sits across him, then eyes him while slowly stirring her coffee. 

She'd have gladly refused it if she didn't miss coffee so much. She hasn't had some since she moved here. 

 

She keeps silent for a while, watching him as he sips his own and rubs his eyes at times. 

 

The light coming from the window behind her makes his shirt appear whiter than it is, and it broadens his shoulders somehow... makes them stand out. 

The table and especially the chair he's sitting on are way to small not to make him seem more of a giant than he already is.  

 

So all of this is really nice, but she's still not at ease. 

"You drink that, and then you leave, right?"

 

She knows he can't understand what she's saying, but it still gets his attention. He looks straight at her, eyes lidded.

 

"You drink your coffee," she repeats more slowly, pointing at his coffee, before using her index and her middle finger to mimic someone walking away: "...then, you leave, you go... OK?"

 

He looks at her, then at her hand, then back at her. 

 

Two very silent seconds pass. 

 

Before he gives her a -very hesitant-  _thumbs-up_. 

 

She narrows her eyes at him. 

 

Blasé, she asks:  

"...you didn't get that, did you?"

 

His expression slowly goes blank while he surveys her face again.

 

Then, still very hesitantly, he nods. 

 

She groans, pinching the bridge of her nose, while he brings his coffee back to his lips. 

 

She stands up, sighing. "I'm going to the Loo, I need to pee," she mutters. 

To no one. 

 

She leaves him, and less than three minutes later, she's back. 

She stops before entering the kitchen, mouth slightly agape. 

 

He's standing in a tight white undershirt at the sink, draining the water, with two pink rubber gloves on his hands that are visibly way too small for him. His shirt has been carefully hanged on the backrest of his chair. 

She looks over at the counter. 

Something like fifteen cleaning products have been pulled out of the cupboards and gathered there along with a few cloths.

 

 

Even as she's sure he's heard her coming back, he doesn't look at her, unperturbed. 

 

And starts scrubbing the counter without further delay. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [L'eau qui dort](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NJlSbHrI-_M)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> For our north american readers: Rey's estimation for Ben's weigth is 90 kilos, so almost 200 pounds.
> 
> What Ben says after Rey scared him:  
>  _"...psycho."_
> 
>  
> 
> [Here's what a Moka pot is, for those who don't know](https://www.google.fr/search?q=moka+pot&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwjzl5DW9tveAhWPgVwKHQuvBNgQ_AUIDygC&biw=1366&bih=626#imgrc=5Hw4-wIqDAnTpM:)
> 
>  
> 
> What Ben asks her:  
>  _"Where... where are the cups?"_
> 
> What Ben says when he lets go of the dirty sponge:  
>  _"Disgusting."_


	5. God-given

 

It's been forty-five minutes now. 

 

And the French man is still at it in Rey's kitchen. 

 

She's very quietly observing him as he swipes left and right and up and down the counter, the doors of the cupboards, the tablecloth -soaping, rincing, drying, removing jars and shakers and other utensils from their chaotic order to rearrange them or put them away, with serene yet efficient movements as if he was merely doing his god-given job. 

 

From time to time, he wipes the sweat from his face with his forearm and blinks forcefully, his tiredness showing. The kitchen is small but he seems to find a new thing to do every five minutes before even finishing a previous task. 

 

Meanwhile, she's sitting on the couch at the opposite side of the room, silently watching him from behind her knees that she holds against her chest.

 

She sits there, scowling and trying to make sense of him. 

 

She knows he's aware she's watching him.

He must feel her willing him to look at her, but for the longest time, he doesn't, solely focused on completing his work.

 

Until he opens the fridge, and stops for a second or two. 

 

He glances at her. 

 

" _What_ ," she hisses --before pointedly groaning like a petulant teenage girl. 

 

She knows what he's looking at.

 

So  _what_  if she left plates in there and that, say, mold has started to grow on the food, so what?  _So what?_  That's none of his concern, if he's not happy with it he can go. 

 

But as she expects it by then, he doesn't throw his gloves to the ground and give up like a sane person would do. 

 

 

Instead, he takes out the plates one by one, his nose wrinkling slightly, mouth shut tight. 

 

He persists in his mission of cleaning the whole room. 

She senses, dimly, that the logical explanation for that is that he must intend to stay more than a few hours, and given what happened during the last sixty minutes since she found him exactly where she's sitting right now, she already doesn't know anymore if she exactly wants him to leave right this minute. 

She does and she doesn't. She has no idea what to make of him. 

 

He stops and furtively glances at her again a few seconds later when he finds the rubbish. 

 

"Yup!" She says to him then. "That too. Haven't changed it in a while. Have fun doing it for me, whatever rocks your boat."

 

And he does. 

 

Patiently, he takes the bag out of its spot, ties two ends together to close it, pulls out another bag from under the sink and finally throws away the left-overs. 

 

Other than those two times he doesn't manifest any contrariety nor does he acknowledge her in any way. 

 

What then?

He's gonna clean everything and then what? 

 

She watches him for a good while before the black sports bag on the right of the couch calls her name. His sports bag.

 

At first, she checks to make sure he's not looking, but then, _what difference does it make?_  

She'll know soon enough if that's something he's touchy about. 

 

She's right about that, because as soon as he hears the distinct sound of a zipper being dragged, the French man raises his head from the dishes. 

 

She freezes, but holds his gaze as he stares at her.

Both her hands are in his bag. 

 

He's not moving anymore, just eyeing her, his face rather unreadable. 

 

Her eyes don't leave his as she starts moving her hands around in it, disturbing the folded clothes in there, somewhat defiant as she does, daring him to object.

 

Her hands come across a tube of toothpaste, a razor -as far as she can tell, because she's not looking down at what she's touching.

 

She's obviously in search of something more incriminating than clothes and aftershave. 

 

He wordlessly narrows his eyes.

Still he makes no move.

 

Acting before she loses her nerve, she blindly grabs a t-shirt, and throws it away, still looking straight at him as it falls to the ground a few feet away from her with a soft sound. 

 

His eyes are on her, then on the t-shirt, then back on her. Jaded, he inhales and exhales deeply through his nose.

Then brings his attention back on the dishes. 

 

Who  _is_  this man?

 

She'll rummage thoroughly through his stuff, then, since he doesn't seem to have any problem with it.

Two shirts, black and white, two white t-shirts, one pair of pants, one pair of shorts, two boxer briefs. 

 

And a pair of black leather gloves. 

\--that's it, really, just a pair of glove, yet her mind is only working through that new piece of information.  _Why do people who break into people's homes wear gloves, usually?_

 

However, she doesn't have the time to fully embrace all the suspicions those gloves awaken in her as she looks down at them, holding them in her hands with a frown, because her spine prickles when she notices that the water's not running anymore.

 

She looks up, and he's  _right there_ , something like ten feet away from her, looking at her intently.

 

\--- _how_  does a man that  _heavy_  moves across the floor without making a single noise??

 

He slowly gets closer, and from where she is, sitting on the couch, she's craning her neck to look at him with wide eyes.  _He's a very large man_ , a voice reminds her.  _I can see that_ , she mentally spits back. 

His imposing frame is moving in on her and she shrinks into the couch, the gloves tight against her chest.

Her heart picks up the pace. 

 

"-- _what_?" She murmurs, her throat dry -strongly regretting in that moment not to have run away and abandoned this damn house when she still could. 

 

All thoughts come to an halt, though, when he casually bends, reaching toward her feet---

 

-and picks up the three plates she left on the ground there.

 

She blinks at him as he grabs them one by one, before wordlessly returning to the kichen -leaving her to play with his gloves all she wants. 

 

Who is he. Why does he do any of the things that he does. Why. 

 

She watches him as he dries up forks and knives and neatly puts them away in the third drawer. She's aware she won't find any answers on his broad back. 

Still, she keeps staring. 

 

 

The night has started to fall when she opens her eyes, realizing in the process that she dozed off at some point. She timidly unfurls and stretches, groaning. 

 

She surely would have slept for a few more hours, if the past two months are anything to go by regarding her sleep habits, but something woke her up. 

 

The smell of basil. Onions, beans, zucchinis, garlic. 

 

She sits up, struggling to open her eyes, but alert. 

 

He's his back to her in front of the stove, stiring the content of a pot. He's wearing the apron that was hanging at the nail in the wall, the one with the blue flower pattern. 

 

Is she still asleep and her brain is fucking with her, or  _what_?

 

He's cooking himself a fucking meal. 

The fucking gall.

 

Still in the haze of her slumber, tongue dry, she nearly stomps to the kitchen, scowling again, ready to tell him what's up despite having no chance of being understood.

 

Once again, she's taken aback a bit by the size of him as she approaches, and has the smallest instant of hesitation.  

 

In the end though, it doesn't matter. 

 

Her eyes catch sight of what exactly is on the table. 

 

A bottle of red wine from the cellar, some bread he sliced and prepared she doesn't know how or with what, a bit of salad in a bowl. 

 

More importantly, there are two plates, two glasses and two sets of forks and knives. 

 

It's by no mean a reason to congratulate him, yet it steals her voice and she falls silent before she's even spoken. 

 

He looks at her with eyelids that look much heavier than before her nap. 

She notices another glass of coffee by the stove. 

Someone's gonna sleep tight. 

 

_God it smells good._

The food, sure, but the whole room smells clean too. Holy shit.

 

She forgot what that was like -and she distinctively feels better from it.

She also can't help but feel like an utter failure as well. 

 

And she resents him for that. 

 

"I'm not gonna thank you for cleaning the kitchen, you know," she informs him, finally looking up at him. 

 

He looks back at her, his hip against the counter.

He appears to be thinking before speaking, or maybe he's wondering if he even should speak at all. 

 

Then he nods once, and says: 

"Welcome."

 

\---meaning  _you're welcome_ , no doubt. 

Because the only thing he's understood from her statement, naturally, is  _thank you_. 

 

" _No_ , I---" She closes her eyes. "I said I'm  _not_  gonna thank you for cleaning."

 

Now he just stares at her. 

 

She elaborates further. 

" _You're_  the one who should say _thank you_."

 

She straightens, trying to convince herself. "...for the food and the coffee."

 

He stares at her for a moment longer. 

 

Then says, very hesitantly: 

"...welcome?"

 

_Ugh!_

 

"Forget it," she mutters. 

 

She sits at the table the whole time he needs to finish the preparation. Meanwhile, she grabs a slightly grilled slice of brown bread and absently takes a bite.

 

Her eyes widen.

He rubbed some garlic on it, and added a few drops of olive oil too.

 

And it's fucking delicious.

 

Before she can catch it, she lets out a brief and quiet moan while chewing it.

 

Regardless of how brief and quiet, he still hears it and turns around. 

 

He quickly turns back to his pot then, but it's too late. She sees the small smirk playing on his lips before he can hide it.

 

"Get over yourself, I'm just hungry, I'd eat anything," she assures him. And she has eaten anything, for the past two months, she should add. He's got nothing to say to that, of course. 

 

He fills up their two plates, and takes the apron off before sitting. 

As he does, he sees her exchange their plates, along with the glasses of wine he poured them both. She doesn't care how ridiculous she looks. 

 

Nor does she care about the smile she catches on his lips again, and that he tries hard to contain.

 

She looks at him as he sits down and delicately grabs his spoon.

"You spend the night, and then you go," she decides. 

 

He looks back at her, chewing his bite, swallowing, licking his lips. 

 

 

Then wordlessly gives her a thumbs-up. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Don't fall in love with me yet / We've only recently met / True I'm in love with you but / You might decide I'm a nut / Give me a week or two to / Go absolutely cuckoo / Then, when you see your error / Then, you can flee in terror](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=38HomZC_Dds)


	6. End this

 

 

It takes a moment for Rey to remember anything from the previous day.

 

She wakes up in her bed, drooling on her mattress, the comforter convering her entire body except her face, the lumonisity bright behind the thick fabric of her yellow curtains. 

 

For a solid minute, her half-shut eyes stare at those curtains while something acidic cooks between her ribs, a mix of boredom, exasperation and despair that eats away at her.

 

A string of familiar thoughts wraps itself around her neck, a succession of what's-the-point-why-get-up-it-means-nothing-there's-no-use-end-this-end-this-end-this- _endthisendthisendthis---_

\--thoughts that makes her feel the need to take a deep breath to untie her belly, but a deep breath won't solve anything.

 

It won't make her life worth living.

 

She has to wait it out -she can't do anything but wait for it to pass. 

 

She's had suicidal thoughts and urges for years now -enough time to know that it's always most likely to happen in the morning; when she wakes up and remembers how worthless she is, how her life isn't going anywhere, how there's a whole day ahead of her and that she won't make anything of it, because she can barely find enough energy to brush her teeth.

 

It's a vicious circle, her inability to get up feeding off her feelings of worthlessness, that in turn feed off her inability to get up.

 

She sometimes spends hours in bed because of that. 

 

After that painful minute though, she remembers her situation, and her eyes open wide. 

 

Her  _situation_ , who might very well be sleeping on the couch right now, if he hasn't left during the night. 

 

She promptly sits up and listens for a handful of seconds. The house is completely silent.

 

A faint rush of something that feels a lot like panic rises in her chest, and she squirms to get out of bed and on her bare feet, before quickly padding toward the living-room. 

 

 

The night before, the French man and her eat in a companionable silence of sort, something she never thought could occur between complete strangers.

 

He eats the way he did the rest: to the point, and as if the situation was entirely meant to be -as if nothing about the afternoon they just had was strange to him. 

 

She eats while her eyes go over everything he's cleaned. The lamp at the center of the ceiling cast an orange light on everything around them.

 

Since he's dusted and washed them, she feels like she can better appreciate the carving of the lavender on the wood of the cupboards, a bit as if she could see it for the first time.

 

In the south of France, everything is decorated with drawings, carvings, and patterns of lavender flowers, sunflowers and cicadas. 

 

When she finishes her plate, she looks up at the clock above the fridge.

"Wow," she mumbles. "Eight pm, way past my bedtime." 

 

When he's done wiping his plate clean with a piece of bread, he sighs loudly, rubbing his face, as if agreeing that it's already really late for him too.

 

That man's truly exhausted, she can tell.

She doesn't know why, though, and that might be the crucial information lacking here.

 

He then gets up, and picks up the plates to bring them to the sink behind her. 

 

Like that's the most natural thing to do. 

 

She still has no idea what his intentions are.

He could be waiting for her to be asleep to steal everything.

 

That'd be dumbfounding, after all the cleaning he's done, especially given that there's nothing here of any real value -that she knows of at least.

 

More importantly though, she really doesn't care.

 

He can take whatever he wants.

 

Matter of fact, she can't bring herself to be scared of him either, probably because she feels that if he had wanted to hurt her, he would have done so already.

 

It still feels like she's being irresponsible.

But, once again, depression makes it so hard to care. 

 

She watches him for a minute while he turns on the tap and lets the water run on the dishes until it's hot enough. 

 

She retreats to her room without a word, and falls asleep to the unexplicably very comforting sound of him doing the dishes. 

 

 

The way from her bedroom to the living-room is really short, yet long enough for her to realize something she hasn't realized the night before.

 

Going to bed, she wasn't aware she was taking for granted the fact that he'd be here in the morning.

 

She's forced to be aware of it now that she's hurrying to the living-room -now that the mere possibility of him being gone makes her stomach clench. 

 

But her shoulders relax. 

 

He's here. 

 

Lying on his side, legs folded, on a couch way too small for him.

Sleeping soundly.

 

The room is painfully sunny. For some reason, he opened the shutters last night, and the sunlight bathes his face, his cheeks pink for it. 

 

He put on shorts before going to bed. His feet are bare.

 

His ribs open and close peacefully under the light grey t-shirt she threw on the floor to get a reaction out of him yesterday. 

 

The scene feels strangely domestic.

 

It hits her then.

 

The floor is squeaky clean. The coffee table too -and the dresser, along with the shelves, have been dusted. 

 

Holy fuck. Someone's particular about the houses he breaks into.

 

Then, she notices the bells. 

 

The bells around the neck of the porcelaine dolls are missing. All fourteen of them. 

 

She frowns. 

 

_What the shit?_

 

She walks up to one of the shelf, then turns to him, as if she could find any answers on him, but then, being closer to the french doors, soon enough she finds that all the bells have been tied to the handle.

Well, not all of them, but almost. 

 

_Why?_

 

She thinks about it for a second. 

 

He must want to be warned every time the door opens or closes, obviously.

More specifically, every time  _she_  opens or closes the door.

 

To keep her from running away and tell the police?

 

But the door isn't locked. If he had wanted to make sure she doesn't leave, he would have blocked the way with the dresser. That would have been way more efficient. Is he just stupid? 

 

Frowning, she quietly pads to the hallway to check the front door.

 

Sure enough, she finds bells tied to the handle there, too. 

 

She comes back to the living-room. He's still sleeping. 

 

She very quietly approaches him, as if searching on his form the key to his intentions again. Instead, her eyes linger on the color of his cheeks. It makes him look really young, especially with his pitch black hair curling near his temple, with his ear poking through. 

 

Standing right next to him, looking down at him, she can hear his quiet breathing. She can smell him too. 

 

God he smells good. Fuck. 

 

He took a shower last night, no doubt about it. 

 

Somewhat embarrassed, she pulls on her own t-shirt to smell it. She supposes that being able to smell her own odor isn't exactly a good sign. She must reek. 

 

She represses an annoyed sigh. 

 

 _Fine, she'll take a fucking shower, alright?_  She internally fumes at no one. 

 

She looks up at the french doors, and the bells tied there. Understanding what's in the end fairly simple. 

 

If the door can't close, and he put bells there to know when she opens it, it simply means that, should she decide to run away, he wants to be aware of it so he can leave too before the police arrives. 

 

If that's not it, then that's her best guess. Because the fact is that she's not restrained. 

 

The keys are still on the front door where she left them after coming home yesterday. Before she found him. 

 

She looks down again then, and jumps slightly. 

 

His eyes are opened. He's looking straight at her. 

 

She recovers quickly by murmuring coldly, as if to herself -really wondering out loud: 

"What makes you think I won't try to hit you on the head with something while you sleep?"

 

He narrows his eyes under the sunlight, but doesn't look away, very attentive to words he can't understand. 

 

"...or use kitchen knives on you? ...you don't know me, do you?"

 

Very much like her, he appears to be searching her face for answers he can't get any other way.

Then, his hand comes up to rub his eyes.

 

He's just woken up and he's tired of her already.  

 

He grunts. 

 

Then sits up.

 

She steps back, watching him stand up and drag his feet to the kitchen. 

 

After a moment of hesitation, she follows him there. 

 

He opens the fridge and gets out a bottle of milk and some butter. 

 

_The fuck?_

 

He closes the fridge, and she opens it back right after him to take a look inside. Her eyebrows shoot up. 

 

In there, she finds three kinds of jam, leeks, zucchinis, artichokes, potatoes, a blue cheese, two bottles of wine --

 

And she was worried he'd leave!  

Did he bring up these from the cellar yesterday?  

 

He pulls out a jar of brown sugar from a shelf and opens it. There are black...  _things_ , at its center, that she doesn't recognize right away.

He's suprised, apparently, and brings the jar to his nose, sniffing it. He hums. A low, deep sound.

 

He puts it down momentarily, and she hurries to sniff it herself while he's pulling out a pot from another cupboard. 

 

Vanilla.

Vanilla pods. 

 

To give the sugar the perfume of vanilla, she assumes?

 

Fucking French people. They're not better than her.  

 

She watches attentively as he pours just a bit of milk in the pot without paying any attention to her in return. He adds four spoons of sugar to it, before putting the pot on the stove.  

 

There's a clean pan there, a very small one, and he pours a bit of sugar in it too. 

 

Then, like yesterday, he starts preparing the Moka pot to make some coffee. All this time, she just looks at him. 

 

She's still next to the fridge, so he's pretty much his back to her where he is, facing the stove. He stirs the milk, the wooden spoon in his hand dragging against the bottom of the pot. 

 

His t-shirt is a bit tight around his armpits again. Is that on purpose? He doesn't need that, anyone can see his shoulders are huge. Let her not even get into the subject of his back. Or his arms. 

 

She can't remember when she took the time to really look at a man. Let alone fuck one. 

 

Her eyes drop to his bare feet on the tile, before they slowly go up along his calves. She'd be curious to feel one, to see just how firm it is. But the thighs, though --the thighs on this one. Jesus. 

 

She quietly gulps, before she realizes she doesn't hear the spoon dragging against the pot anymore. 

 

She looks up.

 

He's eyeing her from behind his shoulder. 

 

Her cheeks heat up, and she frowns defensively. 

_"What?"_

 

Naturally, he doesn't say anything. 

Instead, he grabs the brown bread, and cuts thick slices. One. Two. Three. 

 

He stops there. 

 

_What?_

 

Just like that, she's  _outraged_. 

 

Three isn't enough for two people.

 

Now she's properly scowling.

 

She walks up to him, hoping to catch his attention, but he doesn't look back at her. 

 

"Make me breakfast," she says to him, close to downright grit her teeth. She wouldn't dare shamelessly demand anything like that from anyone, but he's not anyone, is he? 

 

He's the man who broke into her home. 

 

He owes her. 

Selfish asshole. 

 

He quirks an eyebrow at her, but only briefly, bringing his attention back to the brown sugar melting in the pan, and the bread he dipped in the milk and warm butter, that's cooking in another larger pan. 

 

Is this standard in France? 

Do all French people cook like that? 

 

The Moka pot hisses. She scowls even more when he pulls out  _one_  glass only from the cupboard, along with a single plate. 

 

She gets closer to the stove while he's away from it, looking closely at the bread that's slowly toasting, deeply inhaling the smell--

 

He pushes her out of the way. 

 

"Wh-- Hey!"

 

It's not a hard push, but still. 

 

She pointedly crosses her arms on her chest while he serves the golden-looking bread on the -single- plate. 

 

Ignoring her. 

 

What's so fucking funny is that she's actually hurt. Was is too much to cook something for her too? 

 

She's not scowling anymore, just frowning bitterly. 

 

He puts down the plate on the table, with the glass of coffee. He pushes her out of the way once more to get to the fridge, and she doesn't even say anything. 

 

He chooses one of the jams by reading what's written on it, that she can't read, because it's written in French -by her great-aunt, she presumes, since the jams appear to be homemade.

 

He opens it with a pop using his gigantic arms of his. 

 

Asshole. 

 

When everything is on the table, he places a spoon next to the plate, and mumbles when he passes next to her in direction to the living-room:

 

"... _bon appétit._ "

 

 

She looks at him with wide eyes as he returns to the couch, lies down on it with his back to her.

Decidedly going back to sleep. 

 

 

The whole house is perfectly silent once more.

 

 

A silence that's broken just a minute later by the timid crunches of the caramelized bread under her teeth. 

 

 

God, she could get used to this. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Feels like I just woke up / Like all this time I've been asleep / No one stays the same / You know what goes up must come down / Change is a thing you can count on / I feel so much younger now](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TsxbEnsnRIM)


	7. Santé

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While I was asleep last night my Christmas present came in early in the form of a [fanart by LilithSaur](http://lilithsaur.tumblr.com/post/180330254258/once-again-plantsandlamps-captivates-me-with-her), and would you know it? It's the cutest, most gorgeous thing there is. I know: she draws like a goddess---what's new, right?  
> Don't hesitate to check it out and drown her with your praises 
> 
> As usual, you don't need to understand what Ben says to appreciate this chapter, but everything is translated in the end notes anyway. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy, thank you so much for reading =')

 

 

And she  _does_ , she does get used to it. 

 

So fucking fast in fact. 

 

Every day she expects him to be gone, and every day he's here. 

 

If she had to make an estimation, it takes maybe four days for a routine to fully settle between them.

 

Four days.

That's a ridiculously short amount of time. 

 

It quickly feels like she spent several summers with him many years ago, and that they're just falling back into old forgotten habits together. 

She's hardly known that kind of feeling with anyone.

 

 

He cooks every meal -breakfast, lunch, dinner.

 

It comes with privileges he refuses to let go of, like deciding when they'll eat, or more importantly choosing  _what_  they'll eat, for every meal, with no exception.

 

Despite the fact that it's  _her. Damn. Food._

 

She reminds him of that fact. A lot. 

 

Sure he doesn't speak English, but she's still certain that he makes an effort to understand her only when he feels like it. 

 

She's tried several times to put on display on the counter what she wanted for dinner but he'll just put everything back in the fridge without even bothering to look sorry. 

 

"No," she says, waving around whatever it is that she  _really_  doesn't want to eat. 

 

"Si," he just flatly shoots back. 

 

_"No."_

 

_"Si."_

 

"I hate artichokes."

 

She loses him whenever she tells him anything other than  _thank you_ ,  _please_ ,  _no_ , and  _yes_. 

Outside of those words he doesn't understand her anymore, or rather, in the particular situation where she tries to question his menus, he ostensibly doesn't _care_ to understand.

 

He turns away from her, refusing his attention -starting his preparation regardless of what she says. 

 

The worst part is that, she can't really act like she's mad forever when she systematically finishes her plate faster than him, and has to resist the urge to lick it clean on top of everything.

 

He always tries to be discreet but fails: she always catches the triumphant smiles that play on his lips when she ends up eating up something she claimed to hate the taste of. 

 

She still doesn't know jack shit about him.

 

Aside of his name. 

 

She wouldn't forget it either the way she does most people's names, because his is almost the same as hers. 

 

 _"Ré_ ," he repeats after her when she tells him what her name is -with a very strong French accent, the  _r_  as hard as can be.  

 

"Ren," he tells her then, tapping with the tips of his fingers on his chest.

 

Ren. 

 

She makes good use of that name. It's one of the five words he'll understand right away coming from her mouth. 

 

He continues to undertake alone the totality of the housework. 

 

She doesn't often leave plates on the floor anymore, because she's got much less occasions to eat on the couch or in her bed, since he prepares every meal and serves them on the table and nowhere else before consistently doing the dishes without a complaint.

 

Needless to say, it makes acting like a clean human being easier.

 

It makes being a grown adult easier. 

 

Ironically, she doesn't remember ever behaving like this around her mother when she was a child.

 

In fact,  _she_  was the one to pick things up around the house when she was little, from a very young age up until she was sixteen and asked to be emancipated.

 

One afternoon, when she was eleven, she even picked up a syringe.

 

It only happened that one time, because her Momma always preferred pills.

 

She would come home from school to pick whatever her mother left laying around -clothes, plates, the dog's toys. Usually making a point of doing it in front of her, as it would make her mother feel guilty enough that she'd try to make less of a mess for some time.

 

The same thing is going on here, she distractedly realizes after a week spent in his company. 

 

Since Rey doesn't eat on the couch anymore, she doesn't leave the plates on the floor as much, but when it happens -because she ate a snack, or the left-overs of some previous meals they shared- he picks everything up without a word; without even looking at her. 

 

She feels guilty. 

 

She tries to convince herself that she shouldn't, because she hasn't asked for any of this.

 

Still, soon enough, she thinks twice. 

And starts bringing her plates to the sink. 

 

 

She takes more showers too. 

 

Not so easy to let yourself go, when you have a spectator in the front row to witness your decadence. 

 

She zones out under the hot stream -for twenty, thirty, forty minutes.

When she gets out, her skin is red and her eyes sleepy. She puts on one of the few dresses she took with her, because it's the easiest way to dress. 

 

 

She finds him removing the sheets from her bed one day, when she gets out of the bathroom. 

 

When he sees her, he points at the other side of the bed. 

 

Got it. 

 

She goes on the other side to tuck the clean sheet under the mattress while he does the same on his side.

 

A pillow is thrown at her face.

 

When she looks up at him, he's serious as ever, with both his hands defensively up: "Pardon, désolé."

 

His apologies sound genuine. 

 

The second she looks back down the second pillow hits her face. Hard. 

 

" _Wha--??_ "

 

Okay, now she sees the smirk.

 

"Pardon, vraiment désolé," he insists, trying to sound apologetic again. 

 

"Someone summoned his inner twelve year-old," she comments flatly, looking back down to resume her task. 

 

The comforter lands on her. 

 

In his defense, when it comes to demonstrate anything close to a sense of humor, they're rather limited. 

 

 

Quite soon, she notices that they have a very different way to deal with this whole situation -her speaking English only, and him French.

 

He appears to very early on make peace with the fact that talking is pretty much useless when trying to pass on crucial informations.

She really doesn't speak French, he finds. Not even a little bit.

 

So he mimes -a lot.

He points at things. He sometimes talks to himself, but never quite directly to her, at least not when he's trying to efficiently make her understand something. 

 

For the most part, he's pretty quiet. 

 

On occasions, she doesn't hesitate to give him a taste of his own medicine and acts like she's deaf when he requires something of her.

 

Or rather, like she's really fucking dumb. 

 

" _Ren_ ," she whines in the middle of the afternoon. "Make me some coffee, I don't know how to use the Moka pot."

 

He's sitting at the kitchen table, playing deaf too, but she's determined when it comes to being a little shit.

 

"Ren. Ren. Ren. Ren. Ren."

 

He looks up from the book he's reading -one of her aunt's, that he found in the dresser.

 

"Café, please? Café?" She asks innocently. 

 

He's tried to show her the dosages several times already at this point, so she wouldn't need his help every time she wants to use the Moka pot.

 

But it's no use: she doesn't want to prepare her own coffees. 

 

For some reason, she wants  _him_  to make her a coffee. 

 

_She's a twenty-eight year old adult woman._

 

"Regarde combien j'en mets," he tells her once he's finally standing up at the counter, pointing at the water tank of the Moka pot, trying to bring her attention to it. 

 

That's the part where she acts like she's only got two brain cells left. 

 

"Yes," she nods, sitting at the kitchen table and looking everywhere but where he points at. "Coffee, I want coffee."

 

"Ré. Ré."

 

"Mmh?"

 

"Regarde combien j'en mets," he repeats, emphasizing by bringing his index and middle finger to his eyes, before pointing at the water tank.

 

Adorable. He really wants her to pay attention. 

 

"Yes, please. I want some coffee."

 

He always ends up diligently preparing it himself -and that's something that feels warmer to her than the coffee she gets to sip afterwards. 

 

She doesn't even like coffee that much. 

 

 

Because she doesn't speak French, he seems to think there's not much use to talk at all. 

 

It's the complete opposite for her.

 

Knowing that he won't understand her prompts her to talk more, for some reason. 

In fact, to talk more than she ever has. 

 

\---to say things she hasn't told anyone. 

 

They've known each other for five days, when she suddenly asks him with genuine curiosity in the middle of dinner as they're sitting at the table of the living-room:

 

"...have you ever imagined what it'd be like to... fall from a rooftop? ...How it would feel?"

 

He doesn't answer, naturally. 

Oblivious. 

 

Still, he looks up from his plate, slowing his chewing down in an effort to pay attention to her. His eyes find hers.

 

"I don't  _want_  to," she adds, her mouth full. "But sometimes I just imagine what it would feel like. To be hit by a train. Or..."

 

She swallows.

 

"To jump from a window. How my body would be pulled to the ground faster and faster until the impact."

 

Whether it's because he can somehow sense that she's talking about a serious matter in spite of her detached tone of voice, thanks to clues she's not conscious of, or whether it's because she's reading too much into it -either way, it looks like he's really listening to her.

 

Like he understands.

She's resolutely aware he doesn't, but it still feels like he does.  

 

And his entire attention is on her nonetheless.

 

How considerate and sympathetic must someone be, to make her feel like she's listened to despite not understanding a single word?

 

 

"Don't tell anyone this," she goes on, "---but once I made a noose. My roomate had a rope laying around." 

 

She looks down at her plate.

"I would never use it." 

 

She pushes the food around in her plate with her fork, then shrugs. 

 

"...I just wanted to know what it'd feel like to have its weight around my neck."

 

When she looks up at him, she sees that he's stopped eating. Mirroring her. 

 

It gives her the strange impression that he knows exactly what she's talking about.

 

"You're a good listener, you know that?" She says all of a sudden, scrunching up her nose with a smile, tilting her head to the side. 

 

The corners of his mouth quirk up slightly.

 

He's mirroring her again. 

 

She gestures at his face: "No  _oh my god, this is fucked up..._ or...  _you're fucking weird, get help_..."

 

She swallows, looking down once more, thinking.

 

".. _.you fucking psycho_."

 

She huffs a little laugh. 

 

When her eyes are back on him though, it hits her hard. 

 

His face is as somber as the subject at hand.

She can't make sense of it.

 

\--until she realizes that she herself isn't smiling anymore. 

She's wincing. 

 

He's only sending back to her the pain that's showing on her face.

 

"What about you?" She murmurs. "Got anything to say to me?"

 

Because she remains silent for more than he'd expect her to be, probably, he finally moves, slowly grabbing the bottle of wine.

Before pouring her a glass, raising up his own to her.

 

"Santé." 

 

 

Later on, he picks the plates up and puts them in the sink, as usual. She feels too exhausted to do the dishes but too embarrassed to let him take care of them again. 

She stops him. 

 

"I will... do the dishes, _tomorrow_ , just leave it, okay?" 

She gestures at the sink: "Leave it? Okay, Ren?"

 

He gives her a thumbs up. 

 

She nods once. 

 

 

But just as she's about to enter the bathroom to take a shower, she hears the tap running. 

She turns around.

 

He's doing the dishes. 

 

Now she's wondering if he didn't think that she was expressly asking him to do the dishes.

 

 _Shit_. 

 

 

When she gets out of the shower, he's already on the couch, deeply asleep. 

 

 

She resists the urge to go look at him, and quietly pads to her bedroom. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Don't tell me it's all in my mind / In my mind](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cFRcabr9Etg)  
>  
> 
> Translations: 
> 
> "Pardon, vraiment désolé" > "Sorry, really sorry."
> 
> "Regarde combien j'en mets" > "Look how much water I put in it"
> 
> "Santé" > "Cheers" (the same word is used to say "health")
> 
>  
> 
> Also! (because I feel like most non-French speakers will wonder about that) the use of "Si" in French to say "Yes":
> 
>  
> 
> [ _"Si" is another French word to say yes, but we only use it in a very specific situation. To contradict someone who made a statement in the negative form. \- Tu n'aimes pas le chocolat, n'est-ce pas? You don't like chocolate, right? \- Mais, bien sûr que si! J'adore ça! But, of course I do! I love that! The key here is the statement in the negative. We don't use "si" for "yes" otherwise. Now, "si" is yes in other languages, such as Spanish and Italian. How confusing!_ ](https://www.thoughtco.com/saying-yes-in-french-oui-ouais-1371481)


	8. Chaton (There is a God)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Chaton" in French literally means "kitten" -but, to find an appropriate equivalent here, it might actually be better to translate it with "angel", or "sweetheart". 
> 
> "Chaton" (Kitten) in French is less sexualized and less gendered than in English. In France, people can call children that way of course, but also, in a couple, a woman can potentially call a man "chaton", whereas a female English speaker is less likely to call her male partner "kitten" in her everyday life as a term of endearment--or am I mistaken?
> 
> All of this to say: I've translated what's in French in the end notes, but "chaton" is replaced by "sweetheart".
> 
> Also, check this tweet out from Moongrim/Emma: [moodboard, people, yay!! =D](https://twitter.com/EmmaGrimd/status/1065579819340046336)

Overall, Ren limits his reactions to thumbs up, _merci_ , _welcome -_ and _chaton_. 

 

She has no clue what _chaton_ means.

Come to think of it he uses it pretty rarely, but it's come back enough that she recognizes the word.

 

It usually appears at the end of sentences he mumbles in French, but sometimes in the middle too -and on diverse occasions.

 

In the morning. 

"Tiens, chaton, ton café."

 

In the afternoon too, if he sweeps the floor and nudges her feet with the broom. "Lève tes pieds, chaton." 

 

In the evening, as he passes her on his way to the bathroom, and she's on her way to bed. 

"Goodnight." 

 

"Bonne nuit chaton," he mumbles back. 

 

It's okay, though; it doesn't seem like he needs her to understand that word anymore than the rest.

 

A lot of messages are lost between them.

 

They send each others bottles that drift away -yet somehow, neither of them are bothered by that. 

 

\-- _well_. 

 

Not always. Sometimes the language barrier becomes an intense source of frustration. 

 

One morning, she wakes up startled by a noise she can't identify.

It's brief, loud. 

Sounds like a door slamming, but not quite. 

 

Her heart races and she gets up right away, still struggling to open her eyes, stumbling out of the bedroom. 

 

She immediately closes her eyes for a few seconds then, because of the luminosity. Ren is standing near the bathroom door.

 

She quickly pads to him, not quite awake just yet, rasping: "Wh-what's up? What is, what----what's going on?"

 

" _Euuuuuuh_ ," is the response she gets, the French equivalent of _Errr_ or _Uuum_ , she supposes. 

 

And when she sees _it_ , she wonders how she got that close without noticing it first. 

 

"Wh- _what_?" She stammers again, clearing her throat. "What the fuck is this??"

 

Ren's holding the door handle in his hand, looking sheepish, blinking at it like he doesn't know what to do with it. 

 

...now that it's detached from the door. 

 

" _How the fuck did you do this?_ " She genuinely wonders, her voice going higher and higher.

She's not loud, but her utter bafflement makes her squeak a bit. 

 

It looks like he kicked the door, except that there's not too much damage to it, apart from the fact that the door handle ended up in his hand. 

 

He looks genuinely embarrassed, and crouches down to take a closer look, muttering things in French to himself. 

 

Irritation, if not anger, quickly rises in her along with her confusion, as she pointlessly asks him over and over: _"How? How??"_

 

Pointlessly, because he hasn't learned how to speak English overnight. 

 

She points at the hole in the door, where the handle was, eyes wide: "How is that even possible?" 

 

He stands up and scratches his head with a frown.

 

Then starts talking to her in French, which he rarely bothers to do -apparently trying to justify himself, or explain what happened.

Obviously, she doesn't understand a single thing.

 

Except for a word that comes back repeatedly.

 

" _La porte---_ bla bla bla--- _cette porte---_ bla bla bla--- _une porte_ ," he tells her with what sounds like a defensive tone, gesturing at the handle, at the door, pushing it, pulling it back to him -and looking very contrite. 

 

She clenches her jaw, and looks back down at the hole.

She doesn't know why she gets so worked up over a door handle, but she does.

 

It was the last room where she could lock herself up and be alone, and now she can't!

 

She refuses to get into why being alone is such a necessity to her.

 

Not being able to tell him those things adds to her frustration big time. 

 

_Fuck!_

 

The rest comes out in the form of a high-pitched whine. 

 

"I mean, _Jesus Christ,_ how does that even happen? ...Now we don't have a fucking door, basically -we can't close it, we can't do anything of it, might as well take it down with the handle! I can't fix this up, _can you??_ "

 

When she looks up at him, he's holding back a smile, avoiding her eyes, and hiding his mouth a bit behind his hand.  

 

"Oh, what's so fucking funny now??" 

 

He looks at her for a second or two, trying to keep from smiling still.

 

" _Gna gna gna, gnagna gna gna_ " is what comes out of him.

His voice a mockery of her high pitched sounds. 

 

\---she gasps so  _loudly_  she almost falls back on her ass. 

 

_"...is that supposed to be me??"_

 

She gapes, outraged.

 

Now he's downright trying his best not to laugh, his attention on the door again like he's back at trying to come up with a solution.

 

She stays like this, her mouth agape and eyes wide for a second or two, before hitting him on the shoulder.

 

He turns to her, hiding behind his hand again, his shoulders up.

" _This_ ," she fumes, gesturing at herself, "is  _you_ , okay?" 

 

She squares her shoulders and bounces on her feet on the spot in a pointed way, as if to imitate someone walking with something up their ass, and deepens her voice the best she can, but without too much finesse -more preoccupied about what she says than the actual quality of the impersonation: 

 

"Hey there, I'm a fucking brick house. My Mom was a Grizzly bear, my Dad a tree trunk, and I can't touch anything without tearing it down!"

 

He blinks, his eyebrows shooting up. Clearly amused by the show.

 

"Woooops," she goes on, swinging her hand at nothing, "broke a door, don't mind me!"

 

He wheezes then, laughing and coughing at the same time, hiding his mouth behind his hand. 

 

She promptly stomps away before a threacherous smile turns the whole scene she made into a joke. 

 

 

Obviously, her anger vanishes faster than it came. 

 

Especially given that he's the one who cleans, cooks, fixes things up around the house -while she continues to spend most of her time lying on her bed or on the couch. 

 

 _On the couch_ , where a t-shirt he wore the night before sometimes lay around. 

 

 

He reads a lot. 

 

She wonders what kind of man he is, beside what he shows her of him.

She doesn't wonder too much, though. If she does, she might end up asking herself the right questions, and the right questions just might threaten whatever it is they have. 

 

Still, she wonders if he read a lot as a little boy, and what kind of books he read. 

 

The ones he reads now are novels. She can't know what they're about, but it wouldn't say much about him anyway, because he's had to pick them from what looks like a rather poor selection. 

 

One afternoon, he's reading on one of the garden chair, not too far from the French door -sheltered from the sun by the house.

The wind blows a bit, but it still too hot to be in the sun.

 

She doesn't even know why she approaches him at first.

 

She stops close enough from him that her presence is known, but he still doesn't look up from his book, used to have her around already without them interacting. 

 

It gives her yet another opportunity to take in his form.

 

The occasions aren't lacking, but she never misses one. 

 

Before she stops herself, she hums softly, her voice close to a murmur: 

"You're... you're a... beautiful beast."

 

She winces. _What the fuck is she saying now?_

 

He slowly looks up from his book, an eyebrow up, obviously confused as to why she spoke to him out of nowhere but also,  _why she spoke the way she_   _did._

 

That's clearly _not_ a tone of voice he recognizes from her. 

 

But he can't grasp anything more than that, can he? 

 

Something blooms inside her, something she hopes isn't showing in any way, and she watches as he blinks up at her, innocent as can be, before he nods very hesitantly. 

 

And gives her a thumbs up. 

 

_The sweet boy._

 

"Yes," she nods back, giving him a thumbs up of her own, "I know:  _good for you_ , right?"

 

 He narrows his eyes, still as confused as can be, but eventually brings his attention back down to his book. 

 

That little, unexpected taste sparks the beginning of something.

 

A challenge of sort, from her to her.

 

She's simply curious to see how far she can go. 

 

She'd have to be careful not to inadvertently use words he would immediately recognize, like  _sex_ , for instance. 

 

It seems like such an easy thing to do, but she eyes him from afar sitting on the couch while he's in the kitchen, plotting in silence over and over, as if she was preparing her strategy for an actual war.

 

The anticipation she feels just from planning what she'll say and when, is enough to make her heart burst. 

 

It's ridiculous, because what does she risk? Still, her belly fizzes in ways that are both unpleasant and --- _lovely_. 

 

At first, she's somewhat timid, and she doesn't dare to explore the full potential of the situation. 

 

"You have a very soft-looking mouth," she tells him out-of-nowhere again, as he's serving their plates.

 

He briefly looks at her, face blank, like most of the time when she talks to him. 

 

It's enough to embolden her.

 

And it escalates pretty quickly. 

 

"...what does a lady have to do to get a good pounding around here?"

 

She's standing right next to him when she tells him this one. He's moving zucchinis around in the pan.

 

Being able to say that to him, out loud and without consequences, is a brand new feeling for her that bears no comparison. 

 

She hasn't had that much fun in fucking forever. 

 

"I got wet thinking about your thighs last night," she tells him flatly while she's bending over him one morning, just as he's waking up on the couch.

 

He grunts, annoyed. Then gets up to prepare her coffee.

 

There is a God. 

 

Another time, while he's doing the dishes and glances at her, she even dares to give him an ingenuous smile.

 

"I bet you'd fill me up very nicely," she all but whispers. 

 

She does her best not to let her eyes linger and betray in any way what she's saying to him. 

 

He distractedly gives her a soapy thumbs up. Sweet boy indeed. 

 

 

She tells herself that she's just doing it for the thrill.

For fun. 

 

 

... _oh yes_ , a lot of messages are lost between them. 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Even if you get in trouble, you know that I love you, it'll help you](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IUQM7iVg3Kw)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> "Chaton" in French = "Kitten", that I'm replacing with "sweetheart" here.
> 
> "Tiens, chaton, ton café." = "Here, sweetheart, your coffee."
> 
> "Lève tes pieds, chaton." = "Lift your feet up sweetheart."
> 
> "Bonne nuit chaton" = "Goodnight sweetheart."


	9. Nothing serious

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations in the end notes =)

 

Comfortable. She feels comfortable around him. 

 

When she notices that -how comfortable she is with him, no matter what she wears, no matter what she does- she's... puzzled. 

 

Normally, she's the type of person to be debilitatingly ill-at-ease in the most common situations and circumstances.

So naturally, at first, she has trouble finding why she'd feel differently with someone who's essentially still a stranger to her -no matter how much time she spends with him.

 

Then, she stumbles upon a very simple, most evident fact. 

 

He's already seen the worst part of her.

 

She doesn't have to pretend like she's better than what she's shown him, like she's better than lying on the couch for hours, or zoning out in the middle of a meal, or staying inside day after day despite the indecently beautiful weather and scenery that's going on outside.

 

He saw the worst part of her before even meeting her -simply by entering her house.  

 

And he doesn't comment on it.

He wouldn't be able to if he wanted to, but even so, he doesn't show any kind of judgement.

He doesn't stare at her while narrowing his eyes like some people close to her have done in the past; he doesn't show any sign of annoyance when time and time again she proves to be the worst roomate ever. 

 

Granted, he's  _technically_  an intruder, but still. 

 

She found him on her couch two weeks ago, and in two weeks, he hasn't shown in any way that he was tired of her, despite the fact that  her behavior is by every social standards really difficult to tolerate. 

 

Instead, he celebrates their mutual acceptance of each other in his own special way. 

 

One morning, she wakes up and makes to go directly to the kitchen, where Ren is preparing  _her breakfast_  -but she comes to a sudden stop in the living-room. 

 

It's weird that she even notices it that early in the morning, when she's not fully awake yet, but she does. 

 

She goes to stand next to the French doors. 

 

"...Oh so you trust me now?"

 

He turns around, a questioning look on his face -until his eyes drop to her hand.

 

She taps the handle. 

 

The now bell-free handle. 

 

He chews the inside of his cheek, apparently not proud, then turns back to the stove without a word.

 

She doesn't really care that he put the bells there in the first place -she just felt like commenting on the fact that they were gone, that's it.

 

"...what a milestone for us, Ren," she goes on while finally dragging her feet to the kitchen. "Is it that you've picked up on the fact that I never go out? ...if so, you're observant."

 

She leans against the counter, rubbing her face, and mumbles:

"...you know, for  _years_  I've said that hentai couldn't possibly be my thing, but I saw a video six months ago and I'm still thinking about it,  _sooo_..."

 

The silence is expected.

Not what follows. 

 

"... _Hentai?_ "

 

Her eyes widen behind her hand.

 

Shit.

Shit, shit shit  _shitshitshit_  ----- _fuck_.

She straightens up, and dares looking at him.

 

He's looking back, frowning, his eyes narrowed.

 

She's got his full attention, looks like.

 

... _Hentai_ , she said _hentai_ , _one of the most common tag on every mainstream porn sites_ , what a fucking idiot she is.

 

She got carried away with this shit challenge of hers it seems.

 

" _Wat_?" She squeaks, her voice too high not to sound suspicious.

 

She gulps when she sees the barest hint of a smirk as his eyes narrow some more. 

 

"... _Hentai_? ...C'est ça que tu viens de dire?"

 

So she plays stupid. That's her last resort.

 

"What? What?" She croaks, wincing like she has no clue what he's talking about.

Wow. She should play poker, she's made for this. 

 

 _Jesus Christ_  her heart's beating fast. 

 

Mercifully, he drops it, and brings his attention back to his stove. 

 

 

She huffs quietly. 

She's gonna cool it for a while, with the very explicit content. 

 

He's preparing some coffee, and he got the crepes he made the day before out of the fridge.

 

But she's smelling something else. Something sugary. 

 

Yet nothing's in sight, no cake, no pie, no nothing. 

 

Not on the counter, not on the table either. 

 

It smells like hot chocolate. 

 

She frowns, sniffing her nose in the air, without even caring to be discreet -or graceful for that matter. 

 

Meanwhile he's just busy taking care of the coffee.

She eyes him suspiciously. 

 

"...where's the cake, Ren?"

 

"Mmh?" he turns his head to her at the sound of his name, eyebrows up. 

 

"Where's the cake?" She repeats, looking around a second time. "You cooked something, where is it?"

 

Naturally, he doesn't answer that. But he's still looking at her, waiting to understand what she's looking for. 

 

When he sees her open the fridge, he doesn't react. 

 

When she crouches in front of the oven, opening it and sniffing the smell there, feeling with the palm of her hand that the door is still warm, she looks up and catches the hint of a knowing smile on his mouth. 

 

She fucking knew it. 

 

"Where is it?" She asks with determination.

 

He pointedly ignores her.

 

"Where is it?" She insists, tapping on his shoulder. "Where is it? Where? Where?  _Where?_  ---Ren?" 

 

"Oui?"

 

"Where's the cake?"

 

"De quoi?"

 

"Where's the cake?"

 

"Tiens, tes crêpes," he says, shoving a plate with a few crepes on it in her belly -to intimidate her, she supposes.

 

She takes it. "Don't change the subject."

 

"Mmh?"

 

She almost stomps her foot, her fist clenched at her side from the sheer frustration. She's not dumb. He knows damn well what she's asking for.

 

 _"Where's the cake?"_  She whines. 

 

It's not that she doesn't like crepes, especially his -even though he does them without eggs.

He's made some only three times for her, and she's sold. 

 

She asks him for crepes by imitating him, holding an imaginary pan and pretending like she's flipping one to make him understand what she wants.

He sighs, he rolls his eyes, but it still worked the two times she did that. 

 

It doesn't look like he's going to back down this time, though. 

 

Sitting at the table with his coffee and his crepes, he doesn't hold back and takes and obscene mouthful, leaving her no choice but to join him because now her mouth is watering. 

 

She forgets about the smell for now. 

 

He's removed the bells from the door handle, because he trusts that she won't leave to tell the police about him, apparently -or maybe he trusts that she won't actually ever get out of this fucking house at all. 

 

She hasn't been outside more than five minutes in ten days, and even though she quite enjoys doing nothing in his company, she never follows him when he sometimes walks away in the field, or goes lie down at the foot of the enormous tree that's standing tall something like a hundred meters from the house. 

 

He sometimes asks her to go with him though, not very insistently but pretty clearly, standing by the French door, jerking his head toward the field while asking her:

"Tu viens? Je vais sous le Tilleul. Ré?" 

 

She ignores his question, whatever it is exactly, and distractedly nods while going: "Got it. You're going out. Have fun."

 

Pretending not to understand what he wants. 

 

 

That day though, she has no choice but to get out. 

 

She's been in front of the sink for fifteen good minutes, obsessing over a wine stain that she doesn't seem to be able to get rid of no matter how much soap she uses, when she hears him pass the French door.

 

She doesn't lift her head up right away, but eventually, she does, and watches him through the opened window while still energetically rubbing her shirt, as he walks away in direction to the tree. 

 

A bit of wind reaches her face, but barely, and the singing of the cicadas fills the house, loud and relaxing at the same time.

The weather is warmer by the day, and it's not even summer yet. At this point, she's always wearing one of her cotton dresses, and he's always wearing a pair of shorts. 

 

As if he could feel her gaze on him, once he's almost reached the tree, he turns around, and after a moment of hesitation, he raises a hand above his head to wave at her. 

 

"Yes, I'm recording, sweetheart, go on," she mindlessly mocks, waving back, her eyes not leaving him. "Go ahead, swim all the way to the buoy honey, I'm watching."

 

That's all the fun she gets this time. 

 

Just as she finishes her sentence, she sees him drop his hand at his side, and something's off about the way he carries his upper body, all of a sudden.

 

Her eyes go to his knee. 

 

It falters. One time, two times. Her hands still under the stream of the faucet; her eyes widen. 

 

Just like that, his head lolls to the side, as if it was too heavy for his neck, and his knees give up, bending. 

 

\-----his whole body collapses to the ground -and his form stays there, immobile. 

 

Her blood turns ice cold in an instant, and she chokes.

"Ren? Ren?" she murmurs dumbly to no one, her voice distant to her own ears. 

 

She doesn't feel her legs as she bolts from the sink to the French doors. 

 

Everything is blurry. 

 

The world around her, the feel of her own body, she's there and not there at the same time. She's running, barefoot in the field. 

 

And yelling. 

 

_"Ren!!"_

 

The dreadful reality of their situation hits her full force, shocking her into numbness---

 

_"Ren!!!"_

 

_\--they don't have a phone, they don't have a car, she can't carry him, which means she'd have to run to the next house, and she doesn't know which way to go, she doesn't know if it'll be occupied, she doesn't know how to speak French, or how long it will take for an ambulance to get here, or how long until she can make a call---_

 

She's running to him, running, running,  _running to him_ , and just as she's reaching for him, dropping to her knees--

 

\--his entire body jerks with a shout, startling her as she falls back.

 

He lies there for a second, looking at her.

Before slowly sitting up. 

 

 

Her eyes are impossibly wide.

She tries her best to sainely process what's happening.

 

Her chest is so tight it hurts.

 

He's not smiling at least. Looks like he's sensed that he shouldn't. 

 

She doesn't know what her face looks like, but she bets it's not the kind of reaction he was going for.

 

She pushes on her hand and gets back on her feet, stunned, her heart beating wildly. He does the same. 

 

She knows it was only meant to be a joke, and she can see that he's appreciating the extent of the damage.

It does nothing to soothe her. 

 

She tries to focus on the air getting in and out of her lungs. 

 

_It's okay. It's not a big deal, a bit immature, but nothing serious. He doesn't know._

 

 _Nothing serious_ , she repeats to herself.  _It's okay._

 

She closes her eyes. Her blood boils. 

 

When Ren hesitantly holds what looks like a piece of chocolate cake in front of her to have her take it, though, her eyes briefly go to the Tupperware box he's holding in his other hand---

And before she knows it, she slaps it out of his grasp. 

 

Hard.

Probably the hardest she can. Way too hard. 

 

Her breath is suddenly short and burning her throat. 

Her hands are trembling. 

 

She looks up then. 

 

He's perfectly still, taking in her reaction without giving away anything that goes on in his head. Her own emotions must show plainly on her face. 

 

She barely can breathe, yet words make it out of her mouth as she gets real close to him, chin up to look him straight in the eyes: 

 

"Don't ever fucking do that again."

 

Her voice is hoarse but she still adds, pointing at his face, her throat tightening more: 

 

"That's fucked up. That is  _fucked. Up._ "

 

He looks back at her, swallowing.

Not moving at all, just taking her rage in, his face carefully impassive. 

 

Then, he looks down at the cake in the grass.

 

He slowly crouches, and starts picking the pieces up. 

 

She stands there for a few seconds, not looking at him, her arms rigid at her sides, and her jaw clenched. Trembling still. 

 

 

She goes back to the house eventually -leaving him there. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Some days I'm built of metal, I can't be broken / But not when I'm with you / Do you feel it, do you feel it? / Do you feel that I can see your soul? ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pTA0DSfrGZ0)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> "Hentai? C'est ça que tu viens de dire?" > "Hentai? ...Is that what you just said?"
> 
> "Tiens, tes crêpes." > "Here, your crepes."
> 
> "Tu viens? Je vais sous le Tilleul." > "Wanna come with? I'm going under the Tilia."


	10. People don't overcome anything alone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Three things:
> 
> 1\. Another chapter will be posted in a few hours. 
> 
> 2\. **Major trigger warning** : what follows might be upsetting for some of you, please refer to the tags, they've been updated.  
> If you want to skip the scene, stop reading at _Rey looks around, at the couple sitting two tables from her_ and resume reading at _Rey knows it now, and she knew it then_ (that's a third of the chapter, but you'll still be able to enjoy the rest of the fic even while skipping this scene).
> 
> 3\. I'll be able to reply to you comments tonight. I hope you enjoy, thank you _so much_ for reading <3

When Rey turns eighteen, her mother calls her, but she doesn't answer the phone.

 

She tells herself that she'll call her back later. As in, in a few hours, or the next day. But she knows very well that she'll call her something like three or four weeks later, if she even remembers to call her back at all.

 

When she sees the word _mom_ pop on the screen, Rey can't help but repress a wince. An exasperated sigh. What's certain is that she'll never agree to talk on the phone if her mother is the one calling, because she can never trust that Yuma won't be shitfaced or high or both.

 

Rey's been financially sufficient and living on her own for two years now after being emancipated by the Court. In the beginning, she sees her mother once a week, or tries to. She stops trying within a few weeks.

 

When Rey waits for Yuma that day, she hasn't seen her in five months. She suggested they see each other via text to avoid a conversation on the phone.

 

Her mother leaves her a voicemail in which she stammers her joy at the prospect of seeing her daughter, telling her that she can't wait, that she's missed her and that she'll be there and it's an excellent idea. That she loves her.

 

Rey considers cancelling -many times until the day finally comes where she has to meet her mother to eat an ice cream at the mall, not far from her old neighborhood where Yuma still lives. With her boyfriend.

Unless they broke up since the last time Rey saw her.

 

Rey doesn't cancel, and that day she's there on time, sitting at one of the small round tables in the lobby of the single ice cream parlour in the whole mall. Three pm sharp.

 

Her mother, however, isn't on time.

What a fucking surprise.

 

After waiting for almost half an hour, Rey orders herself a pistaccio ice-cream.

 

It takes her four minutes total to eat it, and she waits for another fifteen minutes before she sees her mother arrive through the window.

 

Yuma hasn't even set foot into the lobby yet, and Rey already knows her mother isn't sober. She sees it at the way she walks. Her arms tucked at her sides, neck brought slightly forward, shoulders a bit hunched. A slower pace than the norm.

 

Her jaw is the ultimate tell. It's slacked, even as her mouth is closed.

 

Rey takes a deep, silent breath that does very little to calm her down.

She wants to be done already.

 

Yuma's skin is lighter than Rey's, but her hair are darker. She looks young, but she'd look younger if not for her years of addiction.

In fact, she's actually young. She's had Rey way too early in life, a month after turning seventeen.

 

Another tell is how low Yuma greets her, as if the volume of her own voice was too much for her.

"Sunshine, oh... I'm, I'm... So happy to see you," she stammers. She goes for a hug, and Rey won't bother standing up, stiff as a board, but she lets her.

 

Yuma lets herself down on the chair across Rey.

"You... you really look..."

 

A pause way too long. Rey watches as Yuma can't even come up with a single word. Eventually though she finishes her sentence.

 

"...put together. Like you know what you're doing."

 

Yuma's eyes fall on the empty cup of ice cream on the table.

"Oh, you... you ate your ice cream, already?"

 

"Are you surprised?"

 

No matter how much anger Rey feels she can't act any other way but indifferent. Her tone around her mother is always flat. She sounds bored, regardless of how hurt she is.

 

"Do you even know what time it is?" She asks Yuma, as if she was genuinely curious to know.

 

But a frown turns the corners of Yuma's mouth downward. It's an image Rey isn't touched by anymore.

 

"I have somewhere to be in ten minutes," she informs her mother.

That's a lie.

 

Yuma's face falls slowly ---it's like watching her pain seep in. She swallows.

"I, uh... I'm gonna order something, and we can share it?"

 

"No thank you, I've reached my limit. Oh but please, go ahead."

 

Yuma's about to stand up, but she stops, asking softly: "...what flavor do you recommend?"

 

Probably trying to engage one way or the other. Probably trying to order a flavor Rey likes, so she can pretend she's full half-way through the dessert and offer her daughter the rest.

 

Rey isn't in the mood.

 

"See that?" She asks her mother, pointing at the list of flavors way above their heads behind the counter. "You've got every flavor written up there."

 

She watches as Yuma blinks real slowly at the list, her mouth still in a frown. Can she even read anything in the condition she's in?

 

"I ---I won't be long."

 

"I doubt that."

 

Yuma abruptly gets up, probably trying to hurry, but she sways slightly in the process, and so she judiciously goes back to careful steps in direction to the counter -as careful and controlled as she can be right now anyway.

 

Rey looks around, at the couple sitting two tables from her, at the blond employee mopping the floor, at the middle-age man and his teenage son on the other side of the lobby -at anything not to keep her attention on Yuma. She knows seeing her mother  _hesitating_  in front of the counter will test her patience.  
But a clatter forces her to look that way anyway. She's not the only one -everybody turn their heads to the counter.

Yuma caused a chair to fall over, Rey doesn't know how, but probably while trying to take support on it, given how she sways.

 

Shame heats up her cheeks as she glances around. Everyone's attention is on her mother.

 

She looks back at her just in time to see it happening.

 

Slowly, very slowly, Yuma lowers herself onto her knees, as if she was actually _purposefully_ kneeling in the middle of the lobby to look around for some change she would have dropped, or something of the like -except that her face is tilted back the whole time.

 

"Mom?"

 

Yuma remains like that for a few seconds, sitting on her heels. Rey straightens.

 

"Mom."

 

She stands up the second she sees Yuma's shoulders drop, right before she falls to the ground, her spine giving up.

 

Rey is on her knees next to her in a heartbeat.

 

She turns her mother on her side, and starts tapping her cheek to get her to open her eyes.

 

Yuma's eyeballs roll under her eyelids, up, and left, and up, and right.

 

She opens her eyes, then closes them, then opens them back, unable to focus her gaze on anything, her pupils blown.

 

The last time that happened, Rey was only twelve, but it's still very fresh in her mind. Panic swells in her chest.

 

"Mom? Mom?"

She holds her by the jaw, and slaps her, but it barely gets any reaction out of her.

 

"Should I call 999?" She hears behind her.

 

"Yes, _yes_ , God, _please_ , do that," she says, and even her can hear how alarmed she sounds. Yuma closes her eyes.

 

"Mom. Mom! Keep your eyes opened. _Mom_. Open your eyes." Yuma's eyes open, but her eyeballs keep going left and right. She drools on Rey's hand.

 

"Mom? Can you talk to me?"

 

Yuma grunts.

 

"Here," someone says, handing her a phone, and she faintly notices that everyone got up to better watch the scene. Some people passing by in front of the shop have stopped in their tracks and are watching too as she brings the phone to her ear.

 

Even in that situation of emergency, Rey keeps her wavering voice down when asked what happened, hyper aware of the people around her listening with great interest to everything she's saying.

  
How old is your mother? Thirty-five. Is she conscious? Yes. Can she answer a simple question? No, but she's reacting.

 

Help is on the way.

 

"How long? How--" she stammers. "How long before they're here?"

 

"They'll be here as fast as they can, keep her on her side, keep her awake, don't hang up, alright sweetie? You're doing good."

 

The second she hears those words, tears roll down. 

 

When the paramedics are there, Yuma can still open her eyes. Rey allows herself to feel some relief.

 

She hurries with them to the ambulance. They're going to the St Joseph hospital, but they refuse to let her in the ambulance, despite her insisting that she's her daughter.

 

She watches the ambulance leave.

 

Yuma doesn't make it to the hospital.

 

 

It's been ten years since her mother died.

 

Rey can think about it now without crying, without her throat tightening, without huffing shallow breaths. It's part of her life, it happened, nothing can be changed about it.

Yet despite those simple facts, and no matter how long it's been, she can't seem to be able to get rid of the guilt.

 

Over her leaving the house when she was sixteen.

Over what turned out to be their last conversation.

Over the fact that, if Rey had visited more often, maybe Yuma would have turned her life around.

 

People don't overcome addiction when they're isolated. Rey knows it now, and she knew it then.

 

In fact, people don't overcome anything alone. 

 

Turning her back on Ren as he's picking up the cake she threw to the ground, and while walking her way back to the house, she's still shaking but discovers that a blinding rage can drop just as fast as it rises. 

 

Stepping back inside, her breathing steadies, but she finds that all she's left with is a lump in her throat.

She swallows thickly, suddenly painfully aware of how she reacted. 

She just did that. 

He made a stupid joke, and in return she made him drop something he's spent time making for her, before hissing at him like she's feral.

 

 _She bared her teeth at him._ She slapped out of his hand something he cooked expressly for her, that he might have gotten up early to prepare, a cake he thought about as something _she_ would like.

 

He cooked for her,  _like he does every single day._  

 

Sure, what happened with Yuma has something to do with her overreaction.

 

But also, she just now discovers that she's refused to face a simple truth up until that moment. 

 

 

Ren could leave at any time.

 

 

He could pack his things in less than five minutes,  _and be gone_  ---the exact same way he appeared. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [The birth of the water lilies](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eGY-VCkO8e4)


	11. Bon nuit

 

 

Rey stands there in the living-room, her palms sweaty, her stomach in knots, because she's having a hard time finding a single reason why Ren wouldn't just... leave. 

 

She tries to swallow it all down, and simply waits for him to come back to the house now, desperate to know just how bad she fucked things up.

 

Her legs are restless, so she sits on the couch and folds them under her, unable to do much else, squirming.

 

And when she hears him coming back, her heart becomes too loud to her own ears, and she stills, waiting for him to pass the French doors.

 

She doesn't dare to look straight at him when he comes in.

 

She only does when he turns in direction to the kitchen, noticing then that he's holding the Tupperware box, naturally.

 

She doesn't perceive anything different in his walk.

 

But he doesn't look at her, doesn't say anything to her.

 

And when he gets to the rubbish, she catches him biting the inside of his cheek --while he silently throws away the entire cake. 

 

She tries not to wince at the pang in her chest, and fiddles with the hem of her dress.

 

Yet he doesn't make a show of it -he just throws it away like he would if he had dropped it on the ground by accident.

 

She can tell that he's not trying to hurt her feelings, just does whatever needs to be done next, just like when he  _then_  walks to the sink and starts to patiently clean the Tupperware box.

 

Somehow, that doesn't make her feel any better to sense that. If anything she feels worse.

 

He left his book opened on the kitchen table.

When he's done, without a word, he sits, and quietly resumes his reading, his head a bit more down than usual.

 

Reading, like he would have any other day.

 

She looks at him, and she doesn't know if what she's hoping for is for him to talk to her, but she's hurt by the silence between them, even though he's not a very talkative person in the first place.

 

This is another kind of silence than the warm, comforting one they usually share.

 

She lies down on the couch and curls in on herself, like she would have too if none of this had happened. 

 

She trusts a few hours can help, but when hours do pass and he's starting to prepare the dinner, she's forced to see that it hasn't helped.

 

The smell of basil and marjoram fills the room, along with the steamy hissing of the _cocotte-minute._

 

They can't speak together, but they always do anyway -at least  _she_  does, and he reacts to her, to how she acts, or the sounds she makes.

 

Right now, her throat is too tight to produce a single word, and she doesn't dare to join him in the kitchen like she so often does when he's cooking. 

 

He does cook though, and sets the table -like every other evening. 

 

She still doesn't relax. 

 

Instead, she gets anxious over the moment where she'll have to stand up and walks to that kitchen, to sit down across him.

 

She feels ridiculous to be feeling that way, like the stakes are so high; she should just... act like nothing happened, and like everything's fine. 

 

When she sees him serve a plate, she gets up awkwardly, her legs now made of cotton, and very silently walks from the dark side of the room to the orange light of the kitchen, and sits at the table.

 

She glances at his face, trying to find something there.

 

He doesn't look back at her, but he's serving her.

 

_Ratatouille._

 

She's twisting her hands under the table, and breathes when he's done:

 

"...thank you."

 

But then, her stomach drops because he waits a bit too long to answer what he always, _systematically_ says to her when she thanks him; just an additional second or two to produce something he's always casually shot back at her, and she's immediately sure then that he won't say it this time, that this is the definite sign that he hates her now, and she winces before she can help it. 

 

But it's there, barely, a low, hurt thing that she could have as well missed altogether if not for the complete silence:

 

"...welcome."

 

She swallows, even though she's got nothing to swallow. Her mouth is too dry. 

 

He starts eating -so she tries to do the same.  

 

She looks at him from time to time, trying to see if she'll catch him looking back, but he's careful to keep his eyes down on his plate.

 

Avoiding all eye contact.

 

She's actually starting to feel  _sick_  over this.

 

She takes a bite, then another, and chews for an abnormally long time -by anyone's standards, but especially hers. 

 

She eventually quietly puts her fork down. 

 

"I'm sorry, I--" she murmurs, "I can't finish it."

 

And this time, she doesn't get any reaction at all.

 

He briefly looks at her plate, then brings his eyes back on his own, and eats slowly, like he always does. 

 

His left fist slowly clenches next to his plate. 

 

Instead of leaving the table, though, like her anxious-self so badly wants to, she chooses to stay at the table while he finishes. She doesn't really know why. She can't cut it short.

She's waiting for something to make things right. So she sits there while he eats. 

 

And it doesn't make a difference.

Not that she exactly expected it to. 

 

When he's done, he gets up without a word, and brings his plate to the sink. He then picks hers up, and carefully pushes with a fork what's left in it in a small Tupperware box. 

 

She can't bring herself to stand up and leave, when now she _really_ should.

 

She really shoud just call it a day. 

 

Instead, she looks at him, or rather at his back as he starts doing the dishes. 

 

When her eyes burn a little too much, and her lower lip threatens to tremble, finally, she stands up.

 

The bed is her last shelter. 

She'll bury herself there and never come back.

 

Her feet stop her in the middle of the living-room, in the dark. 

 

Hesitantly, she turns around, and silently pads back toward the kitchen. 

 

She stops near the fridge, and her heart doubles its pace. 

 

She can barely hear herself when she asks with a small voice:  

 

"---bon nuit?"

 

So desperate to have him talk to her that she makes a very poor attempt at French.

 

The water keeps running. He doesn't say it back, doesn't turn around. 

 

She catches a small sound in the back of her throat, and she blinks away the tears forming in her eyes.  

 

"Ren?" she tries again.

 

He turns his head to the side, then, looking down, and turns off the faucet as if to hear better. 

 

She swallows, and repeats it: "...bon nuit?"

 

He doesn't make her wait. 

 

"Bonne nuit."

 

It's so much better than silence. Still, it's nothing like the way he usually talks to her.

 

After just a moment, he turns the faucet back on, and resumes his task.

 

She stands there. 

 

In the bathroom, she sees the first hot tears silently roll down her flushed face as she brushes her teeth. She stays in there longer than necessary, unable to get out while she can't seem to stop crying. 

 

She eventually pushes with her foot the sneakers she used to block the door -as it won't close anymore since Ren broke it- and the light from behind her barely allows her to see far enough in the living-room to understand that Ren went to bed. 

 

He's lying on the couch, his back to her.

 

All the lights are off. 

 

She practically holds her breath padding in the dark in direction to the bedroom.

 

She closes the door very quietly -then rushes to her bed and lie down on her stomach with her dress on, her fingers finding her eyes immediately to rub them and press some more tears out of them. 

 

She huffs a shaky, wet breath, and her face contorts with the effort of not making any noise.  

 

With the couch being where it is, Ren and her share a wall. And the last thing she wants is for him to hear her sobbing. 

 

The tears don't stop falling though, and her chest heaves. She bites the inside of her cheek. 

 

At night, she often kicks the comforter out of the bed. She can't be bothered to pick it up right now. Instead, she pulls the hoodie she left at the end of the bed over her shoulder, without even making the effort to put it on. 

 

She fucking wants to undo the whole afternoon. 

 

It burns, right between her ribs -and her mouth, with her nose and her eyes, are burning too. 

 

She manages not to sob, but she still sniffles a good deal and breathes heavily through her mouth.

 

She's wiping her nose with the sleeve of the hoodie, when she hears the couch creak. 

 

It happens, at night, when Ren turns on it, so she doesn't react much. It's already a familiar sound. 

 

What makes her hold her breath isn't the couch creaking. 

 

It's the faint steps that follow.

 

When she realizes they're getting closer, she quickly shifts to lie on her side, curls in on herself, and pulls the hoodie to hide her head under it completely.

 

Then, she stops breathing, blinking her blurry vision away. 

 

He hasn't stopped on his way to the door at any point, and she doesn't hear any moment of hesitation when he opens it either. 

 

He's not hurrying. He does it it seems without any second thought, like it's normal, like entering her room at night is a common occurence, when it's really not, he's never done this before, and she has no clue what he wants, although she barely is able to think at all at this point. 

 

She just doesn't move. 

 

As soon as the door is opened, she hears a clicking sound and sees through the fabric of the hoodie that he turned on the light.

 

Her body freezes entirely. She tries to sniffle quietly. 

 

Once the light is on, his steps get closer as he walks around the bed to get to her side.

 

Her heart is pounding harder than it ever has. 

 

Not sharply, but not too gently either, he pulls on the hoodie and uncovers her. 

 

The second the hoodie is off her head, she clasps her hands over her face to hide it, sniffling, squirming. 

 

She hears him takes a step or two, and some ruffling. 

 

Then, he steps closer, and she feels the comforter fall on her as he brings it up over her shoulder.

 

Tears gather in her eyes once more, but she holds her breath not to sob, her chest ready to burst. 

 

She feels him pull on it as she understands that he's tucking the comforter under the mattress at the end of the bed. 

 

She allows herself to silently exhale when he steps away, toward the door. 

 

He stops there, and she hears the clicking sound. 

 

Everything's dark again.

 

She doesn't have a second to anticipate what happens next. 

 

His steps are getting closer to her again, on the other side of the bed, behind her. 

 

And her body rocks slightly when the mattress sinks under his weight. 

 

She catches a strangled noise in the back of her throat when the comforter lifts up--

 

\--before she feels his hand reach around her waist, pulling her to his chest. 

 

He doesn't do it gingerly, the way people do it when it's for the first time.

 

Rather, he does it like it's his responsability to hold her when she cries, as if it was the only reason he's here at all, in this house. 

 

She lets out a wet sound when he tightens his hold around her, his mouth in her hair at the top of her head, his arm pressing her against him until a shaken whine follows, muffled by her hands. 

 

He pushes those hands away from her face, and she sniffles loudly before she feels his hand roughly wipe her eyes, her cheeks, her nose, pushing her hair away from her eyes, his thighs coming flushed against the back of her thighs, letting her hardly any room to move against him.

 

Her heart is still pounding, and she's still crying, yet she feels her neck go limp.

 

Her wet hands grip blindly at his forearm, probably hurting him, but he doesn't say anything, just tightens his hold. 

 

His breath is warm on her temple. 

 

 

She's not sure she's ever felt this happy. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I, I will be King / And you, you will be Queen / Though nothing will drive them away / We can be heroes just for one day / We can be us just for one day](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LsvuipGq2ns)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ATTENTION, 
> 
> I'M LEAVING, and I won't have internet, or the time to write -worst case scenario until Friday. So no updates until I come back, so sorry about that.  
>    
> Children! Chapter 13 should be the first chapter from Ben's POV: _are you EXCITED?_ =D
> 
> Take care, see you later this week, and thank you for reading <3<3<3<3<3  
>  
> 
>  


	12. A big, fucking surprise

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've realized that there's been a misunderstanding and it's my fault. 
> 
> Last chapter, I told you that chapter 13 was going to be written from Ben's POV, and because of the way it was formulated a lot of you thought that I was talking about the chapter coming right after--- but this is chapter 12. So, like I said, _chapter 13_ will be from Ben's POV. 
> 
> This one is still from Rey's.
> 
> Please enjoy nonetheless??

 

 

Before even reaching behind her, Rey knows the bed next to her is empty.

 

She overslept. More than usual.

 

She sees it at the way the sunlight hits her yellow curtains.

 

For confirmation though, she laboriously gets up and opens them.

 

The sun is shining bright way up in the sky; she can't see it, and no direct sunlight gets in the bedroom.

 

It must be noon, if not past noon.

 

Aside from the wind hissing outside, the house is silent.

 

Her belly is still warm and soft at the thought of how she fell asleep the night before, without a single worry, but there is no way now for her depressed brain not to give in to doubt.

 

Not being able to have a conversation with Ren also leaves way too much room for interpretation.

 

Still, independently of those circumstances, nothing, in retrospect, could have made her anticipate any of what ends up happening that day.

 

When she gets up, all she pays attention to is her concern, so she hurries to grab a clean pair of underwear and her white cotton dress then quietly pads into the hallway.

 

He's sitting at the kitchen table, his back to her.

 

He's here. He's still here.

 

He was here last night, and he's here this morning.

 

Before he can hear her, she goes to the bathroom to take a shower.

 

Once she's pushed her shoes under the door to keep it closed, she hears the chair scratching against the kitchen floor.

 

Sounds like he heard her, and that he was waiting for her to get up to start cooking their lunch.

 

She ties her hair in a bun to keep them dry, and gets in the shower, later on brushing her teeth there.

Today is a good day, because she didn't need to think about brushing her teeth or taking a shower for three hours before actually doing it.

 

She just gets in the shower and cleans herself. Effortlessly.

 

When she puts on her clean cotton dress and her clean cotton panties, it's a feeling so satisfying she could weep.

 

As she's about to open the door she catches the reflection of her swollen eyes in the mirror.

 

 _Well_.

Not the first time, nor the last.

 

Out in the living-room, the sizzling of the pan drowns every other sound. He's still his back to her, facing the stove.

 

His white t-shirt strains over and around his shoulders.

 

The fabric of the black pair of shorts he's wearing is thin enough to render one's imagination obsolete.

 

 _His back_ , though.

 

She wants to run her hands there. So badly. Would that be weird?

 

Would it?

 

...she'd also very much so like to circle his waist and hold him against her front --his ass flushed against her pelvis, his back pressed against her chest, her cheek, while she'd feel the plane of his own chest under her hands.

 

Is that weird?

 

\---she'd maybe fold her knee up on his hip, and maybe, _maybe_ , she'd roll her pelvis a bit, to rub herself _just so_ \---

 

\--okay, _soooo_.

 

She's a fucking dog, pass it on, people.

Jesus.

 

She closes her eyes and represses a sigh, tired with herself.

 

Consequently, she understands then that any kind of rejection from him would sting like a motherfucker.

 

Especially if he rejected something as innocent and pure as a... _hug_.

 

Her fists clench on their own at the mental image of his embarrassment, as he would try to kindly push her away, stuttering French words about _misunderstandings_ and how he'd be sorry he led her on, with a pitying look on his face -and she'd suddenly be very glad not to be able to understand him.

 

The only thing worst than this hypothetical situation is the frustration she's currently dealing with.

 

Because they're not that intimate, are they? They're intimate, sort of, but not _that kind_ of intimate.

 

 _Better just swallow it down_ , she decides while walking into the kitchen.

 

But he hasn't heard her, and her body, then, apparently sees it as an opportunity to temper her predicament in a very unexpected way.

 

Whatever it is she needs to get out of her system must get out one way of the other, it seems.

 

He doesn't hear her coming from behind.

 

She smacks him on the ass.

 

Just like that. Hard. 

 

The way a football player would do a teammate.

 

How awkward and terrible.

 

She doesn't get to exactly measure just _how_ awkward and terrible, though, until she sees his reaction.

 

He straightens his back up on impact, bringing his hips forward, and then hisses, bending over slightly while turning to her, his face in a wince.

 

"...ah, _putain!!"_

 

She flinches away, blinking, mid-way between genuine mortification but also about to protest that, _come on, she didn't hit_ that _hard_ \---when her eyes fall on his hand, the one he's holding to his middle.

 

She surprised him.

As a result, he burnt himself on the stove.

 

Her eyes open wide as she clasps both her hands over her mouth, gasping.

 

"Oh! ----oh, I'm--- _I'm so sorry_ ," she assures him, her voice muffled by her palms.

 

He's looking down at his hand, inspecting the red angry mark there, his jaw still tight from the pain.

 

He can't understand her, but she still puts a hand up to have him wait there, and stammers to him: "Don't... don't move, I'm gonna check if---if I can find anything--"

 

She doesn't finish her sentence, and rushes to the bathroom to see if there is a type of ointment there, that's meant to soothe a burn.

 

She comes back empty handed, and sorry.

 

He's at the sink, letting the cold water run on his hand.

 

She stays back at first, sheepish, then goes with wary steps to stand next to him.

 

His eyes are on the mark on his hand, and he doesn't react to her despite that she's close to him now -but he doesn't appear to be mad at her at all. She's relieved.

 

"I'm sorry," she says again, turning to him.

 

"Mmh?" is what he replies, distracted, while moving his hand under the water, waiting for the burn to soften.

 

But she's distracted too.

 

Now facing his side, her eyes fall on his forearm.

 

Then go up to his shoulder, right at the same level with her eyes, before she slowly looks down, at his waist, at his shorts...

 

He obviously isn't asking her to repeat. Often times when she speaks to him he makes small sounds to indicate he's heard her, or that he doesn't get what it is exactly that she wants, but a lot of the time those sounds don't imply anything, don't mean anything.

 

It doesn't matter.

 

She's acutely aware of how close they are, and it's suddenly... overwhelming. Her heart beats a lot faster.

 

The pan is still sizzling.

 

And her hand seems to move on its own volition.

 

"I said..." she repeats, her voice hardly above a murmur, " _I'm sorry._ "

 

She observes his face carefully through her eyelashes as his eyes widen slightly and his whole body stills.

 

He very slowly turns his head toward her while seemingly trying to process what is happening, looking down at her then from the corner of his eye. The water keeps running.

 

She doesn't interrupt the very light, unsure, round flat-handed caress she's presently giving his ass, as if to soothe him, although she's not even sure that's the cheek she hit.

 

She quietly swallows.

 

That's the boldest she's ever been in her entire life. And she's counting her move to France.

 

"...it's part of the healing process," she breathes, looking up at him, then at his shoulder, then at the place where her hand is currently moving.

 

The water is still running.

 

He slowly looks down at where her arm goes, as if needing to see it with his own eyes to believe it, and his injured hand deviates slightly on the right while he does so, enough so that the water isn't running on it anymore.

 

Looks like he forgot all about his burn.

 

She removes her hand then, using it to gently place his own hand back under the water, bringing his attention back on it too -or part of his attention at least.

He appears to be very much confused as to what's happening. If only she knew herself what exactly she was doing, but she doesn't -this is some hardcore improvisation.

 

Instead of his ass then, her hand finds its way to the front of his shorts.

 

She looks up at him as he sucks in a breath at the contact, eyes straight ahead, stilling once more and somewhat stunned, but not stopping her.

 

Just like that, she resumes her gentle fondling, feeling him through his shorts, her belly warm and her breathing uneven.

 

"Here... feel better?"

 

He grunts, closing his eyes, his jaw tensing.

 

She knew, of course, that she wanted to touch him, and she knew she wanted to touch him _bad_ -yet it's only now that she fully comprehends just how badly. This is amazing.

 

She could do this, just this, for hours. She loves it. Fuck, she, she--- _she loves his cock._

 

She's looking down at where her hand slowly rubs him, up, and down, and she swallows again as she feels him growing hot and hard through the fabric, his quiet breaths shorter and shallow, his hand gripping with white knuckles at the sink---

 

The water stops running.

 

His hand wraps around her wrist, stopping her effectively, his hold almost tight enough to hurt her, enough at least to make her question how he was actually feeling about her _audacity_.

 

She blinks, a stuttering mess as she comes back to reality: "I, I--- sorry, I'm--"

 

He inhales deeply and carefully releases her, stepping to the kitchen table. He set it before she got out of the bathroom.

 

Careful still, he picks up the plates one after the other, then the glasses and places them on the counter.

 

She looks at him do, still disoriented somewhat -and still taking a good eyeful of the bulge in his shorts while it lasts.

 

Thinking back, she'll wonder how she could have been confused in that moment, as to why he was clearing the table.

 

He pushes away the cultery, then turns to her and seizes her wrist -this time in the most delicate way, guiding her to the table.

 

And she lets him do, because what the fuck does she know?

 

"I, I'm--" she stutters, since apparently her brain got stuck on its mission to deliver an apology.

 

She barely notices the front of her pelvis gets in contact with the table then, her attention on his face to her side as she tries to get his attention in return, but he doesn't look back at her, focused on what he's doing when his hand creeps up on the back of her neck, and very lightly pushes her forward--

 

_"Uuum..."_

 

\--until she's bent flat over the table, her chest pressing down on it, her fingers splayed on either sides of her head.

 

 _Oh_.

 

She tries to look up at his face from down there but she only sees that he's standing right next to her hips.

 

Her dress tickles the back of her tighs as the fabric is gradually pulled to her waist. Uncovering her ass.

 

She feels her face heat up instantly and then, she panics.

 

_What panties is she wearing?_

 

She sighs silently when she remembers that she's got a plain, white pair on.

 

Now her heart is beating strong. In this position, she feels it loud and clear against her ribs.

 

She wasn't expecting anything, or rather she's imagining a lot of things are about to happen, yet somehow not what comes to her -maybe because that's something she's never experienced so she doesn't think of it, or maybe because of how soft he's always been to her, and probably because of both -either way it's a big, fucking surprise.

 

_SMACK!_

 

Her head jerks up as she gasps loudly, and one of his hand immediately comes on her neck to gently bring her head back down to the table, as if to remind her to keep it there.

 

His other hand, meanwhile, just landed hard and square on her ass.

 

And yup, yep.

She's got a confirmation of it if she needed one, his hands are really, really big. Heavy. Jesus Christ.

 

She never soaked her panties that fast.

The fabric is clinging to her, and she presses her thighs together.

 

While he places a hand on the small of her back, he takes a step on the side to be able to look at her face, or rather, so she can look up at _his_ face, that he carefully keeps expressionless.

 

This is surreal.

 

_SMACK!_

 

She jerks forward with a shocked _Oh_ , clenching her fists.

Deep breaths.

 

She faintly feels him pull her panties slightly up between her cheeks while she's busy blinking and squirming.

 

 _Fuck_.

 

He clearly doesn't think she's made of sugar. She doesn't know if she should feel flattered or worried.

 

Well. Regardless of how she should feel, what's apparent for them both to note is that she's not moving from where he put her.

 

His hand rests on the small of her back, holding her there, _but not really_.

 

She's doing most of the work.

Staying right where he wants her.

 

Her shoulders relax when he caresses her out of the blue, petting her gently, with light squeezes, and his hand just feels so incredibly warm and soothing on her burning skin that she audibly sighs, feeling her face go as crimson as her ass must already be when she catches the smug curve of his lips -the same kind of curve she sees there when she avidly eats something he cooked that she insisted she didn't like.

 

_SMACK._

 

"---fuck!!"

 

This is vengeance. She huffs, her eyes glassy as she tries to look up at him.

 

"I didn't go _that_ hard--" she chokes, but gets interrupted.

 

_SMACK._

 

She tenses up, eyes shut hard, and huffs still, not moving at all and bracing herself for the next one, a low moan dying in the back of her throat.

 

He bends to better look at her, delicately pushing some of her hair away from her face and tucking it behind her ear.

 

"OK? " he asks, as if to check that everything is alright with her.

 

"Mmh," she grumbles, sounding like a brat to her own ears.

 

"Oui?"

 

 _"Yes!"_ She snaps.

 

The word is barely out that his hand lands on her ass once more. So far the spots of impact have been pretty random.

 

Her eyes water, and she clears her throat, rolling her hips once or twice for something that isn't there.

 

Her hand reaches behind her to rub her ass as if of its own accord.

 

He seizes her wrist just in time, loosening his hold just so, then tactfully brings her hand back where it was, next to her head.

And she clenches her fist to keep from resisting him, simply rubbing her thighs together and squirming to compensate for the touch she's not getting.

 

Cheek pressed flat against the table, she has to wonder: _how the fuck did she end up like this?_

 

He didn't use any of his strength, rested his hand on her neck to barely push her down, merely informing her which way to go more than anything else, and she in return very compliantly bent over for him.

 

_SMACK._

 

She bites on her lip. It stings. Her pussy and her face are equally on fire now.

 

That's when she dimly realizes--

He can do whatever the fuck he wants to her. She'll let him.

 

 _He'_ s certainly aware of it. 

 

_SMACK!_

 

She presses her mouth against the table, breathing hard, her shoulders shaking slightly.

 

She hears him take a step. The pan stops sizzling.

 

The house is quieter for it, and her breathing sounds that much heavier.

 

Again, his hand rests on the small of her back, and she braces herself, but the stroke doesn't come.

 

Instead, thick, obliging fingers make their way between her thighs from behind and start applying a firm pressure though the soaked fabric of her panties, up and down along her folds.

 

She almost sticks her tongue out she's so happy. Her legs immediately spread, her back arches.

 

But she quickly notes that the more she wriggles, rolling her hips at time, the weaker the pressure and the more imprecise and lazy his touch become.

 

Her head still against the table, she tries to look back at him, panting:

 

"--more... _more_ , Ren."

 

His eyes are decidedly fixed on her ass, and she can't tell if he's purposefully ignoring her, or truly distracted.

 

" _Ren_ ," she insists, huffing. He looks at her then, unperturbed. "More," she repeats, squirming, chasing his touch. "More, please."

 

His eyes don't leave hers as she feels his touch becoming lighter still.

 

Okay, so, he obviously understood her very well, French or not.

 

She twists her torso slighlty toward him, and he stops, his fingertips just on the inside of her thigh.

 

She props herself on her elbows, and he removes his hand entirely.

 

" _Ren_ ," she whines, trying to grab his hand.

 

He hides his hand behind his back, trying to bring her attention back to his face. Her eyes find his shorts instead. Her mouth waters.

 

"Ré."

 

" _What_ ," she huffs.

 

His hand is back to tap on the surface of the table, right in front of her. "Sur la table. Allonge-toi."

 

She got the message, but she reluctantly gives him what he wants. Once more, she lies flat on the table, her hand splayed on each sides of her head.

 

And she waits. Long seconds, during which he does nothing.

 

Testing her patience.

 

She remains perfectly immobile.

 

It takes all she has not to squirm in anticipation when she hears him finally shift quietly behind her.

 

The pad of his fingers slide against the fabric once more to circle her clit. Her panties, then, are pushed aside, and his thumb slides inside.

 _Yeeees_ , she roars internally, more light-headed than she's ever been, her mouth opening without a sound. _That's it._

 

He cooks for her, holds her crying through the night---

And now he's about to make her come on the kitchen table, right before he'll feed her there.

 

Tending to her every needs, like a very special kind of nurse.

 

He's not taking care of his hard-on, and he's trying to be quiet but she can hear that his breathing got quite heavy.

How selfless.

 

He removes his hand once more.

 

She feels like she could cry.

 

This time, she pushes on her hands, straightening up, with an actual scowl on her face, annoyed even more when she sees him smirk as he pulls on her dress to cover her ass.

 

"Wha--"

 

But a light push on her shoulder to make her step out of the kitchen silences her as she hears behind her:

"A la chambre."

 

She didn't get that, but the tips of his fingers are planted in the middle of her back, gently pushing her forward toward the hallway, and she gladly pads in that direction while resisting the urge to touch herself, hearing him follow close.

 

When they pass the bathroom, not that she ever thought they were going to the bathroom, she can safely count on them ending up in the bedroom.

 

She hears a soft sound behind her, and briefly turns her head to look. His t-shirt is off.

   
They're inside the next second, and he points at the bed without even looking at her, taking his shorts off along with his briefs.

 

He's... painfully hard.

 

And big.

 

And completely naked now.

 

_Shit, she wants to fuck him bad._

 

"Sur le lit."

 

No dictionary needed.

 

She crawls on the bed, and she doesn't get to lower herself because he does it for her, as he's impatient now apparently, pulling hard on one of her ankles, making her shriek for a second as she lands on her front and bounces on the mattress.

 

Her panties are rolled along her legs and off in a second, her dress pushed up around her waist. She breathes hard in the pillow, fisting she sheets at her sides in anticipation.

 

He crawls over her right after, lowering himself on her, pressing his pelvis and his cock into the soft flesh of her ass as his weight holds her down entirely.

 

He mouths at her neck then, a mix between a kiss and what sounds like a threat at the same time, his voice closer to her ear than she's ever heard it, his breath hot on her cheek -while she feels him slide the tip of his cock up and down her folds already.

 

"Je prends bien soin de toi, tu trouves pas?" He asks her with a ragged voice as she tries to squirm beneath him to spread her legs wider, arching her back for him.

 

"Ré?"

 

"Yes!"

 

"Je fais le ménage... je fais la cuisine," he enumerates -but she wouldn't listen even if she could understand him, her entire attention fixed on what's going on between her legs.

 

He firmly has her pinned down now, leaving her barely enough room for her to move at all -while it sounds like he's coming to a conclusion, breathless, as she feels his cock slowly pushing in, stretching her nicely.

 

"...et maintenant tu veux ma queue. La voilà."

 

He steadily pushes inside, holding her down by the waist as small sounds escapes her mouth and her eyes widen.

 

He doesn't stop at any point, grunting, his forehead pressed to the back of her head, slowly sliding home until his pelvis is flushed against her ass and he sighs in her neck, clearly pleased.

 

"Là... là," he cooes, as if to soothe her, offering a light tap on her ass, pressing a wet kiss in her neck. "c'est bien, chaton. Prends-la toute," he breathes again in her ear.

 

She can't understand shit but his tone is one a parent would take to encourage their child, which just makes for an obscene contrast with what they're doing.

 

Boy. What a life.

 

He braces himself on his elbows then before holding her down by the waist again, pressing her into the mattress as he starts thrusting into her like he's taking revenge, growling at her while she does her best to get shocked mewls out in return -all of it to the sounds of his pelvis slapping her ass.

 

Her british heart is  _offended_  by the sounds she makes. She's always been rather quiet in bed and he's currently making her cry like the next french woman.

 

When he slows down, humming and somewhat out-of-breath, his eyes on her ass as he slides in and out and rolls his hips teasingly slow against her, she blinks, pushing back against him -then clears her throat for some reason.

 

He pointedly clears his throat too, obviously imitating her.

 

She lifts her head up, indignant: " _Oh, you_ \--"

 

A sharp thrust cuts her off, jolting her whole, reducing her protest to a strangled noise that makes him chuckle.

  
This house has probably seen more in the past twenty-four hours than it has the last thirty years.

 

He lowers himself on his elbows then, and resumes his thrusts, wet sounds filling the room again while she just takes him, her mouth wide open in the air before she buries her face in the pillow, her hands fisting the sheets still, the bed creaking in rhythm.

 

"Fuck-- _fuu-ah!_ \---shit, oh--- _fuck!!_ " She eloquently informs him, her voice muffled by the pillow.

 

He grunts back, letting himself down on her, crushing her -then pulls out without a warning.

 

Her head immediately jerks up as she feels his warmth leave her back.

 

" _Whyyyy?_ " she whines -and she doesn't recognize her own voice.

 

She twists to see that he's sitting back on his heels, catching his breath, before he taps on his thigh to have her come and sit on his lap.

  
And she should feel embarrassed at how eagerly and obediently she wriggles on her knees to him, but all her attention is on his cock at this point, and she's not even blushing about it.

 

She clings to his shoulders, climbing him, throwing an arm around his neck while his hands both take a firm hold of her waist to have her sink on his cock.

 

He sighs at the feeling again, and she hiccups, rolling her hips to accomodate him until he bottoms out once more.

 

"I preferred the other way," she grumbles, but he doesn't pay attention to that and circles her waist to press her flushed against his belly, making her release a small squeak as he holds her down on his cock -grinding slowly upward, then, his eyes on her face. 

 

This time, she does blush, admitting breathily: "---nevermind, this is really nice."

 

Tentatively, almost shyly, he presses a kiss on her panting mouth, and she lets out a surprised sound.

 

But if her hands running through his hair and pulling on them is anything to go by, while her chin strains toward him and her eyes are fixed on his mouth, she wants more.

 

Without much finesse or patience, Ren tilts his head and slides his tongue in, humming in her mouth, his hand on her neck to hold her there, his hips thrusting upward it seems despite himself. He's melting around her.

 

His hands find her ass under her dress. She whimpers, then swears - _again_. 

 

She's never been that talkative during sex.

This is a first in a lot of ways. 

 

Come to think of it she's never been that talkative in general, never more than she's been around this man.

 

She looks at him while he gently thrusts up, and she realizes that she might have told him more than anyone.

 

She clenches hard on his cock then to show her appreciation. He bares his teeth at her, hissing. 

 

Then retaliates by holding her in place and viciously thrusting up into her, shaking her while she digs her nails in his shoulders to try and hold onto him, her toes curling, her mouth opening soudlessly. 

 

Quickly he tips them over and she's on her back with him over her. He's quite determined and starts snapping his hips at a punishing pace, his face flushed, his eyes shiny and strangely tender, not leaving her face, hitting her just right, just right,  _just rightjustright_ \--

 

She comes without a warning, her legs holding him down while she arches her back with a cry, her vision whitening---

 

\--barely realizing what's going on a handful of seconds later when Ren pulls out and comes on her belly with ragged breaths -before letting himself back down on her. 

 

" _Thank you_ ," she hears herself breathe against his ear in between pants, her sleepy eyes searching the ceiling, her hands blindly stroking his neck, his shoulders and his arm, while his own hand rests on her neck again as he catches his breath. 

 

"Anytime."

 

She closes her eyes and lets her head loll to the side, her chest filling with air under his weight to push out a final sigh---

 

Her eyes fly open. 

 

She pushes him off her and scrambles to sit up, her eyes wide and blinking. 

 

His jaw is tight, and he's looking down at the mattress, on his side, the resigned look on his face telling her everything she needs to know.  

 

 

Still she chokes out: 

 

"W-what did you just say?"

 

His throat works and his jaw clenches again before he looks at her. 

 

 

"I said:  _anytime_ , Rey."

 

 

 

 

 

 

> Baby, you understand me now? 
> 
> If sometimes you see that I'm mad.
> 
> ...don't you know no one alive
> 
> can always be an angel? 
> 
> When things go wrong
> 
> you see some bad. 
> 
>  
> 
> But I'm just a soul 
> 
> whose intentions are good!
> 
> Oh Lord, 
> 
> Please don't let me be
> 
> _misunderstood._

 

> [ Nina Simone - Don't let me be misunderstood ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9ckv6-yhnIY)

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Remember this story is rated explicit? Coz I 'member.
> 
> 2\. Here, have a twisty twist -congrats to those who saw it coming ^^
> 
> 3\. Translations, in order: 
> 
> "...ah, putain!" = "...ah, fuck!"
> 
> "Sur la table. Allonge-toi." = "On the table. Lie down."
> 
> "A la chambre." = "To the bedroom."
> 
> "Sur le lit." = "On the bed."
> 
> "Je prends bien soin de toi, tu trouves pas?" = "I take good care of you, don't you think?"
> 
> "Je fais le ménage, je fais la cuisine" = "I clean, I cook"
> 
> "...et maintenant tu veux ma queue. La voilà." = "And now you want my cock. Here it is."
> 
> "Là... là. C'est bien, chaton. Prends-la toute." = "There, there... you're doing good, sweetheart. Take it all."


	13. Brilliant

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I thank you for reading?  
> Thank you. You're fucking fantastic. 
> 
> Also, I should leave again maybe around tuesday/wednesday for something like two days? And I won't have access to internet. 
> 
> I forgot to let you know the other day, I've never owned a smartphone, so when I say that I don't have access to internet when I leave my appartment, I really mean that I don't have access to it at all. I'm just letting you know because I still receive messages on tumblr or twitter when I leave like that and I wouldn't want you to believe that I'm ignoring you if I don't respond right away. 
> 
> Anyway, enough of that. Enjoy =)

 

Ben is an idiot. 

 

 

He often feels like one, and most people would confirm him to be one without thinking twice. 

 

Always behind, always trying to catch up. 

 

The student with the lowest grades. The ten year-old who can't read. The high school dropout. 

 

Born in France, raised in France, but forever called  _l'américain_  by his peers in regard to his ambassador of a mother, Léa -who lives in Avignon with him and his father for five years before the divorce.

 

She goes back to live in the US then, and visits Ben a whole month once a year -then less than a month, then less than once a year, until she just... stops visiting him at all before he turns fifteen.

 

His level in English, at least, has always been excellent compared to his classmates'. 

 

So it's not all bad, he supposes.  

 

His father, Jan, is a mechanic. But Ben doesn't want to be a mechanic. He wants to be done with school, and he certainly doesn't want to attend any specialized high schools where other idiots of his kind pursue the only diplomas they can pretend to. 

 

So when he's sixteen, he leaves Avignon. 

 

In Toulouse, he delivers pizzas with the intention of staying there, because the weather is warm and Spain is next door. 

 

He's still a boy, and his needs and ambitions in life are pretty simple. 

He loses his job six months later, though, and is forced to move near Montpellier, where thanks to someone his father used to know well he spends two months picking, collecting and packing cherries. 

 

He's unaware, then, that this is what the next fifteen years of his life are going to look like. 

At thirty-one years old, Ben has never kept a job for more than ten months, and he hasn't stayed in the same city for more than a year. 

 

Every job that doesn't require qualifications higher than a training or something of the like, he's done it.

 

He's been a security guard in Lille, a bouncer in St Tropez, a bodyguard in Bordeaux. He's delivered sushis in Paris on a bike, vegetables in Marseille with a truck, blood and organs on a motorcycle to hospitals in Lyon. He's been a bus driver, a garbage collector, a postman. He's been a busser, a waiter, a cook. 

 

But mainly, he's been an  _idiot_. Looked at sideways, talked down to, replaceable. 

 

Never able to know where he'd be the next year, always saving money  _just in case_ , going through life as if in a purgatory. 

 

A year and a half ago, he finds a position as a bartender for a  _bistrot_  in Grenoble.

 

He's never lived there, and he's got a good feeling about it. 

 

The owner, Marius, is a grouchy cliché, curt and rough and rude somewhat, but he's of the honest kind, and he treats Ben with respect all things considered, asking only of him to be on time and do his job.

 

Life, for six months, is quiet and simple, the way it's hardly ever been to him. 

 

After six months, though, the owner changes. 

 

And a year later, Ben breaks into a home in the middle of fucking nowhere.

 

Because he's a fucking idiot. 

 

That's what comes to his mind yet again in this moment.

He knows Rey heard him well the first time, but when she asks him to repeat, he still does. And when silence follows where she doesn't move at all, he decides not to speak again until she speaks. 

 

There. 

 

It's done. 

 

 _Not a minute too soon, Benjamin_ , his father would say. 

 

Except that she doesn't speak again, not right away at least. The silence stretches, and maybe she's waiting for him to say more, he doesn't know. 

If one thing is sure, it's that he's tried and tried and  _tried_  to predict how she would react and he's only been able to imagine one outcome. 

When she wordlessly gets up and pads away, he lets out a breath he was holding. 

He gets up too, puts on his briefs and his shorts.

And follows her. 

 

Just as she enters the kitchen, she turns around. 

 

"Put your shirt on."

 

He's met Rey over two weeks ago, and this is a voice he's never heard from her. Cold, sounding flat but with an edge. 

 

Even yesterday when she threw the cake he made for her to the ground, she didn't sound like this. 

He's not about to question any order coming from her right now. 

 

He turns around, quickly glances left and right to spot his t-shirt. It's on the floor, a few feet back, right before the hallway.

He puts it on and when he walks back to the kitchen he comes to a stop the moment he sees her face. 

 

She stares at him, stunned, and he's confused as to why, until---oh. 

 

 _Right_. 

 

She just told him to do something. 

 

\---and he did it. 

 

Yeah, she's not used to that. 

 

_Tread carefully._

 

He swallows, and stands near the fridge. 

 

She's next to the stove, looking down at the brown rice in the pan, the rice that he cooked with green and red bell peppers.

She's not moving at all.

Trying to digest the situation, or to assess what to do next, presumably. 

 

And he was right not to expect he could predict anything from her, because  _damn_  if she's not a special lady. 

 

Unsuspecting, he frowns slightly when he sees her pull her dress up to her waist, not paying any attention to him -and still naked under it, although that doesn't matter.

 

She cups her hand and neatly scrapes whatever semen she can find on herself, wiping herself dry with her fingers. 

 

Before putting her hand in the pan to unhurriedly mix it with the warm brown rice, taking generous handfuls of it, patiently going over the whole dish -making sure what little quantity of cum she had on her is now carefully one with the food they were supposed to eat for lunch. 

 

That woman expresses a lot of her aggression through wasting food.

 

And if wasting food is that much of an offense in her eyes that she uses it against him right now, he wonders if that means that she's lacked access to proper meals in the past. 

 

She's taking her time to do it well, that much is certain. 

 

He swallows. Again. 

 

"Not the reaction you were expecting?" She asks, her hand still in the pan. 

 

She sounds really calm, and it doesn't even seem to be a strategy to intimidate him from her part.

It still does. 

 

"No," he simply replies. 

 

"Oh?"

 

"I was expecting worse."

 

She removes her hand from the pan, and looks at him. As if trying to make sense of their situation. Of him. 

 

If she has trouble figuring out how he's been able to hide this from her for more than two weeks, the club is counting two members.

 

Because Ben is actually a terrible liar.

More than that, he hates lying.  _Hates it_. Isn't good at it, doesn't like to resort to it.

 

When he was a kid, he would always get caught whenever he tried to hide something, and when he wasn't caught, he usually admitted on his own to deeds adults had no idea he was responsible for. 

 

Which is another reason why the past year has been hell for him. 

 

To avoid lying, he usually doesn't say anything. Or deflect the question. 

Otherwise, he never lies. In the past, people have said of him that he's disarmingly honest.

 

Not that it's ever been meant as a compliment. 

 

"You were expecting worse," she repeats absently. "Worse how?"

 

"I thought you were going to ask me to leave."

 

"Aren't you afraid you're giving me ideas?"

 

He clenches his jaw. 

_Tread carefully._

 

"How are you feeling?" She asks again -not a rhetorical question this time. 

Her voice is surprisingly small. 

 

She probably means  _how are you feeling about yourself_ ,  _about the situation_ , certainly checking if he's capable of any guilt or if he's an actual psychopath -but his true nature prevents him from saying what she wants to hear, as he feels compelled to go with honesty once more.

 

"Better."

 

Her eyebrows shoot up.

"You do?"

 

"Yes. It feels good to be able to talk. To you."

 

Her right fist clenches, but then, her voice is deceptively calm again. 

"I feel like... I don't know you."

 

"You didn't know me five minutes ago anymore than you do now." 

 

"I didn't know you were a liar."

 

A short silence, before he mutters: "Technically, I haven't lied to you a single time," --but even  _he_  can hear how defensive he sounds. 

 

" _You acted like you didn't speak English on purpose."_

 

"I've... ignored you."

 

She pauses, probably to emphasize her conclusion: "...to lead to believe you didn't speak English."

 

"...yes. ----to avoid questions."

 

She inhales deeply.

"How long were you planning on," she air-quotes the next two words: " _avoiding questions_? A month?... two months?"

 

"No, I never planned that far."

 

"Oh? ...How far did you plan, then?"

 

"A day, two at the most, I don't know."

 

" _A day or two_ , before you'd reveal to me that you could speak English?"

 

"A day or two before I'd  _leave_."

 

The silence that follows and the way her throat works, then, are telling, and at least he can see that before today, for a moment there, they were on the same page.

He didn't want to leave, and she didn't want him to leave. He guessed that much. 

 

Although  _now_ , he's not exactly able to guess her next move, despite her apparent dread at his response. 

 

"However you want to call it," she goes on, her voice low, "that's old-fashion  _manipulation_. If you believe any different, you're in denial."

 

He's not able to speak right away, then.

And he can see she's expectant. 

 

"Maybe I am," he admits in a murmur. "It's..." he swallows again, thinking, "it's-- just that... I never meant to manipulate you," he finishes lamely.

 

He doesn't know if she softens somewhat at that, something in her posture -or if he's dreaming it. 

 

Maybe she needs him to stutter a bit. Hesitate. 

 

"God knows what you meant to do," she breathes. 

 

"I... meant to avoid questions."

 

She looks away for a moment, before asking again distractedly:

"Is Ren even your real name?"

 

Silence.

 

" _It's not?_ "

 

"...Benjamin. Is my real name."

 

He's used to say it the french way, so that's how he pronounces it.

 

She repeats it with her british accent, as if to try it out, to test it in association with his face.  

" _Benjamin_."

 

Then it dawns on her, and the most blasé expression settles on her face. 

"...Ben," she says again, concluding: "Ben,  _Ren_."

 

She sighs silently, rubbing her eyes, before muttering as if to herself: " _Brilliant_."

 

If she wants to hurt his feelings, she can try again.

 

The fact that he's a bad liar isn't news to him. 

 

But she catches him off guard with her next jab:  

 

"What made you go for  _Ren_  and not  _Renjamin?"_

 

The situation is critical, he knows it, but it's just  _too fucking funny_  and he's not able not to silently smile at least, his chin a bit in. 

 

Her shoulders relax slightly, but she doesn't smile back. 

 

For good measure, he still answers her:

"It's not exactly as if I've done this before."

 

"Well you're a natural," she states flatly, bitter -and the frown of her mouth sobers him up. 

 

He bites the inside of his cheek when she quietly insists: "No, it's true... You have a flair for timing, too."

 

"I know you're only trying to be funny, but since you mention it, I've thought of telling you for the past week, and it turns out no moment ever is a good moment to break that kind of news."

 

"You know when would have been a good moment?"

 

"When?"

 

"Anytime I didn't have your jizz on me."

 

" _Right_."

 

He awkwardly clears his throat.  

"I didn't really plan that either."

 

"You and me both."

 

"I guess you're telling me you had trouble finding my burnt hand on my body, then?" He casually retorts, "...and you found my dick instead. Honest mistake, can happen to anyone."

 

She blankly scans his face. 

 

_He's a fucking idiot._

 

Two weeks of not having a real conversation with another person and he has no idea what to do with his words other than fucking everything up even more than it already is. 

 

 

"I'll be in my room," she informs him, passing him. It sounds like she's really hurt. 

 

Maybe because he doesn't want this conversation to be done so quickly, or because he so badly wants them to be back to how they were, fix this faster than it can be fixed, he asks her as a way to get her to postpone her retreat:

 

"Don't you wanna clean yourself first?" 

 

He's about to add  _or eat? ---_ when he sees her turn around like she forgot something. 

 

She slaps him,  _hard -_ the sound resounding in the house.

 

It's probably the hardest he's ever been slapped, not that it's happened once in his adult life until now. 

 

He wordlessly works his jaw, then exhales, slowly pivoting his head back in place. 

 

 

She's already back on her way to the bedroom. 

  

His face burns.

 

But in the end, he doesn't care.

 

 

All he knows, is that she hasn't asked him to leave. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nothing stops you when you start / If only you knew how badly I'm in need of silence
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> The tone was quite heavy for this chapter, and it'll get lighter in the future, I promise.  
> The next chapter will be from Ben's POV again -the next consecutive few maybe? At least the next one for sure.


	14. Things can get a lot less fun, fast

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much longer chapter than usual, considering there isn't any smut
> 
> This is from Ben's POV
> 
> "Petite merdeuse" in French means "Little brat"
> 
> I had a blast writing this  
> I hope you have a blast reading it

 

 

Supposedly Rey hates soup. Any kind of soup. 

 

She tells him so the first time he prepares a  _Soupe au Pistou_  for her. They've known each other for five days, then, and Ben's already used to her trying to change the menu.

 

The vegetables aren't fresh -they come from the freezer, like the rest- and two of the four kinds of beans needed for the preparation are missing, but he fucking knows he'll change her mind about it regardless. Naturally, when she insists again and again that they eat something else, he has to act like he doesn't hear her. 

 

And when she mutters  _asshole_  under her breath because he proceeds with the preparation without paying any attention to her,  _petite merdeuse_  is what he murmurs back. 

 

She stands next to him or follows him around while scowling like the brat she is. 

 

Today though, she spends the entire afternoon in her room. 

 

He takes a shower around three, and when he comes out of the bathroom he sees that half of the baguette he had left on the counter for lunch is gone. 

It makes sense, since she hasn't eaten anything since last night.

 

He glances at her door, and listens closely.

 

The entire house is silent. 

 

He purses his lips.  _It's fine, it's alright._

 

He could hardly expect a better outcome, could he?  

 

Predictably, the first time Rey tastes the  _soupe au pistou_  he cooks for her, she loves it, like he knew she would. 

She even asks for a third plate, unable to hide her disappointment upon seeing that there isn't any left. 

 

So this time, he doubles the quantities -even if it might be in vain. From what he knows of her, that woman is capable of skipping dinner to make a point she's so stubborn. 

  

Cooking isn't the same today. She's not around this time to slow him down, point at things on the counter and say  _ew_  or constantly be in his way. 

 

He feels a pinch in his chest, presses his lips together. 

Yeah, he can prepare the dish in peace. 

 

_It's nice._

 

He hopes she'll come out of her own before eight and that he won't have to beg her, if only because she'll most likely refuse to eat if he expressly asks her too. 

 

He sits at the kitchen table, and waits. 

 

It's soon a quarter past nine.

 

And she's still in her room. 

 

He removes the soupe from the stove, then very quietly pads in the hallway to her door.

 

There, he holds his breath and tilts his head to listen closely. 

 

It's completely silent.

 

Until a few moments later, he hears the bed creak faintly. 

 

He swallows, quickly going over what he could say -finally settling for: 

 

"Dinner is served," with a timid knock on the door.

 

A few seconds pass, enough for his shoulders to sag in the anticipation that she'll ignore him altogether -but by the grace of whatever higher power is here for him tonight her voice however low and muffled reaches him from the other side of the door:

 

"...fuck off."

  

Thank God she can't see him because she wouldn't appreciate him smiling at that. 

 

"Didn't catch that," he deadpans. 

 

"I said  _fuck off."_

 

She needed to tell him more than once, and he's happy to give her the opportunity -especially if he gets to say stupid shit too. 

 

"Why don't you come out and say it to my face?"

 

Except that she falls silent. 

 

Not quite ready to laugh it off, apparently. 

 

"I cooked the soup you hate but really love."

 

"You don't know me!"

 

His eyebrows shoot up. 

 

 _...he can't believe she actually said that_ , and meant it. Like a true teenage girl. If it wasn't for the situation he'd think for sure that she's joking. 

 

But she's not joking.

 

He presumes that, maybe, him getting to know that kind of detail of her pisses her off because in return  _she feels like she doesn't know him_  -her own words, earlier today. 

 

The thing is, she won't get to know him better by staying in her room twenty-four seven. 

 

"Alright young lady, enough. I'm counting to ten."

 

" _Why did you come here?_ " She asks, ignoring what he said but not ignoring  _him_. And that's progress. But the question confuses him. 

 

"...to let you know dinner's ready."

 

"No!" She barks, almost cutting him off. "--- _To this house._  Why did you break in?"

 

He rubs his face.

 

Here we are. 

 

"I had... walked for a good deal of time, and I needed a place to stay. I'm not from here, so I didn't know where to go." 

 

The silence that follows seems to indicate that this wasn't really the question she wanted to ask -and he's right, because she asks another one, without commenting on the answer he just gave her, like he could have expected her to: 

 

"Are you running from the law?"

 

\--she's obviously spent her day  _thinking_. 

 

Her voice sounds slightly closer to him than a few seconds before. 

 

"No."

 

"Bullshit."

 

"It's the truth, I'm not," he insists, sincere, before adding, lower: "...not that I'm aware of."

 

" _Not that_ \---- did you say  _not that you're aware of ??_  " 

 

A brief pause.

 

"Have you engaged in illegal activities,  _Benjamin_?  _Or are you not aware if you have?"_

 

He's not, actually.

He's not aware of that either.

 

At least not which ones. 

 

Given the effort he's made to keep her out of this, he's not about to ruin it all and involve her now, even if only by telling her, at least not yet.

 

_Not yet._

 

He knows he's being paranoid, but better paranoid than reckless. 

 

Time to cut it short. 

 

" _Look_ , the food is getting cold, stay in your room if you want. I'm eating."

 

He does feel some relief saying that and then walking away, because it postpones further down the road something he's not eager to get into, but as he approaches the kitchen table, where the cocotte-minute along with the two plates and cultery he placed there are waiting, he feels a new pang in his chest at the idea that they might not eat together tonight either after all. 

 

Because of wishful thinking -or denial- he still serves her a plate, then sits down. 

 

He stares at the steam waving toward the ceiling -then at the hallway.

 

No noise comes from the bedroom. 

 

After a long moment spent pondering what to do next, waiting for the bedroom door to open, he gets up and takes another plate out of the cupboard, then flips it over to put it down on hers, so the soup doesn't get cold. 

 

He sits back down, picks up his spoon, about to dip it in ---then puts it back down almost right away.

 

He's not hungry. 

 

His stomach is in knots.

  

He feels fucking  _stupid_ , sitting there with enough food for ten people, when none of the two it was meant for are going to bother even tasting it. 

 

He must have really thought she would join him, for her absence across the table to hurt him that much.

He didn't anticipate that. 

 

He sits back in his chair, swallowing hard, his hands on either side of his plate, not quite ready to put everything away--

 

\--when in the silence of the house, the bedroom door opens with a quiet sound. 

 

He straightens up, immediately trying to consider the possibility that she's just going to the bathroom, and that she will possibly return to her room as soon as she's done.  

 

It would also be preferable not to stare at her.

 

It would, but he still does. 

 

She doesn't look back at him. 

 

Relief still floods him when she silently walks to him -and finally, sits down. 

  

When she tries to remove the plate he put on top of hers to keep her soup hot, she flinches, the faience certainly too hot already for her to touch.

So he wordlessly does it for her. 

 

A few seconds later, both of them start eating. 

 

_Thank God._

 

They eat their first plates without exchanging a single word, and he notices she's even trying her best not to eat her soup too loudly. 

 

Clearly not as comfortable as she's been up until today with him. 

 

But he'll take what he can get. 

 

She finishes her plate way before him, as usual, and he doesn't wait for her to ask to put his spoon down and get up, picking up her plate to serve her a second time. 

 

In return, she just hides her hands under the table. 

And lets him. 

 

It's encouraging enough, to him, to attempt a conversation when he sits back down, or anything resembling one. 

 

"What do you want to know about me? ...ask me."

 

He's got his whole life in mind when suggesting this, everything that's unrelated to the past year. But she's not easily distracted from her goal. 

 

"I've asked you what I wanted to know, and you didn't answer."

 

At least she's willing to talk too, even if her eyes stay on her plate. 

 

It's fucking stupid, he knows it is. There's no reason for him not to tell her, if he'll end up telling her anyway. 

He gives this more importance than it has. 

 

But it was easy, for two weeks, while he got to be someone else, to forget why he left in the first place. His most irrational fears are back.  

_Why the rush?_

He can tell her  _later_.

 

In the meantime, he can test the waters in between spoonfuls. 

"I know  _I've_  got a lot of questions for you." 

 

"Do you now."

 

"How does someone who doesn't speak French end up moving to France? ...How come you own this house?" 

 

"This house isn't mine."

 

His eyesbrows shoot up, and he pauses, curious.

"It's not? Whose is it?"

 

"Oh I don't know, I broke in."

 

He  _knows_  she didn't mean for it to make him smile, but he can't fucking help it. 

 

She's too funny for her own good. 

 

He tries to hide it by looking down at his plate, when she says again, her tone the flatest ever, as if she was in fact just  _bored_  and not pissed at him:

 

"Should we turn this into a pyjama party and play  _Never have I ever_?"

 

It's certainly meant to mock his desire to know more about her, but he jumps on the occasion. 

  

"Never have I ever---" he pauses, as if to take the time to think, "...fucked a Frenchman."

 

He holds his breath. 

 

She's certainly looking at him now.

 

Glaring is more like it. 

 

He won't be intimidated.

 

"You have to drink if you have, those are the rules."

 

She puts her spoon down.

 

He's not prepared.

 

" _Actually_ , I fucked twenty Frenchmen in a row  _just_  the other day," she says as if merely mentioning the most mundane anecdote. 

"You know, right before we met? Basically an entire football team, players and substitutes, all with a healthy refractory period. And I mean  _healthy_."

 

He stops eating completely to give her all his attention. 

 

If he doesn't anyway, he'll laugh in his soup and burn himself --for the second time today. 

 

"That's why I've been so tired lately!" She goes on, inspired. "I'm trying to recover from  _sucking all those dicks_. ---so does that count? Or did you mean  _a single_  Frenchman? Because if so, since it's more than one, maybe I shouldn't drink?" 

 

"Rey," he interrupts her with the most serious face. "Allow me to pause the game, to tell you that I am happy _,_  and  _proud_ to know that you aren't afraid to explore your body and try new experiences."

 

"I don't care," she shoots back flatly, resuming eating. 

 

"Well,  _in any case_ ," he goes on, trying his best to keep a poker face, "talking about experiences: I, on the other hand, would like to thank you for taking my virginity."

 

\---seeing her splutter the content of her spoon everywhere is quite satisfying, if not exactly an exploit. 

 

Obviously saying this is especially delectable when the memory of what he's done to her is still so fresh.

 

Particularly what he's done to her  _on that very table they're currently sitting at_. 

 

He waits a second or two to let her cough before deadpanning again:

 

"You're the first to have graced my virgin body with your touch, and it was  _lovely_." 

 

Her smile is barely there, and almost as soon as it's there, it's gone. 

Still. It's enough to make him feel warm inside. 

 

She inhales deeply, eyeing him.  

"You got some fucking nerve," she mutters as if to herself.

 

"What do you mean?" He blinks back innocently. 

  

It sobers him up to see that she's almost done with her plate, and if she doesn't ask for a third one he's not ready to see her retreat to her room just yet.

"Your turn. Never have I ever," he challenges, encouraging. "Something you've never done." 

 

"Never have I ever come to terms with my own mortality."

 

Wow.

This game exasperates her.

 

A shame, he's enjoying this a lot.  

"...well aren't you the life of the party."

 

Waking up from her sulk all of a sudden, she grabs the bottle of wine and brings its neck down on the rim of his glass, stopping before the wine can spill, holding it like she's threatening him with it:

_"Never have I ever been wanted by the police."_

 

He straightens, his face carefully blank. 

 

Things can get a lot less fun  _fast_. 

 

Eyebrows up, she turns her head slightly to the side as if to better hear his answer to come, and asks when he remains silent:

"Should I pour you one?"

 

"No need, no. No one's drinking for this one. My turn. Never have I ever been a little shit."

 

Sure, he's trying to get back at her, still his tone remains flat because there's obviously no real animosity behind it. 

 

"Oh  _are you sure?"_  She frowns, her mouth in a skeptical pout. " _Never?"_

 

She glances down at the bottle neck where it's resting on the rim of his glass to bring him to reconsider his opinion. 

 

When he stays silent again, she finally puts the bottle down.

 

Both her hands are on either sides of her plate, and she's looking straight at him. 

"I liked you better when you didn't talk."

 

It stings.

 

Yet his voice remains low and even:

"You liked me a  _lot_ , in fact.  _What does a lady have to do to get a good poundi_ \---"

 

Her head jerks up and she jumps in her seat, making him flinch:

"Don't do that!!  _Don't you dare."_

 

She pins him with a warning glare for a few seconds, and then---

 

\--she looks down at her plate, huffing,  _squirming_ on her chair, suddenly very fascinated by the food in her plate. .  

 

He blinks, his eyes wide. 

 

After everything she's said to him, her reaction amazes him. 

 

It amazes him, and it amuses him too  _immensely_. 

 

"Oh,  _chaton_..."

He leans forward, his elbows on the table, and she looks back at him, seeming to be anticipating what he could say next.

 

"Look at you, all shy. You're  _adorable_."

 

He sounds aroused even to his own ears, but he doesn't care. 

 

Seeing her defensively shove the spoon in her mouth is a  _delight_.

 

He shouldn't, but he loves it. 

 

"...did you think back about all the things you said to me yet? ...cause I did." 

 

She keeps her eyes down and snorts way too loud not to make him chuckle -before blushing a deep red, clearing her throat.

_This is so much fun._

 

"The best part of it was, you thought you were being  _soooo_  clever, didn't you?" 

 

 _That_  makes her snap. 

 

" _I thought you didn't speak English_ , is what I thought. Remember?" 

 

"...Oh yes, I remember every word," he confirms.  

 

" _STOP_. I'll go back to my room!" She threatens, stomping her foot under the table -and although it sounds like a whine, it's effective.

 

He's not about to let her believe that this afternoon apart from her left him indifferent. He  _hated it._

 

So he immediately snaps out of it, both his hands up to show that he's done:

 

"Alright, I'm sorry, I'll stop. Sorry. It was the last time."

 

She eyes him for a moment, then appears to relax very slightly, before slowly allowing herself to finish her plate, and he can't tell if she hears him mumbling as an afterthought: 

 

"...last time today."

 

"Can you explain to me one thing?" She asks out-of-nowhere, narrowing her eyes. "How did you break the door handle?"

 

His fists clench despite himself. 

 

...well,  _shit_.

 

Her eyes widen a bit when she sees him stiffen. 

 

"Uuh... the door handle?"

 

" _Yes_ ," she hisses, impatient, " _the bathroom door handle_ , you didn't break more than one, did you?"

 

"...oh, that door handle."

His voice is suddenly very quiet.

He bites the inside of his cheek, looking down, frowning.

 

Fuck.

He's trying to figure out the best way to explain himself to her, but nothing that comes to his mind seems right. 

 

In the meantime, naturally, all she hears is silence. 

It doesn't help soothing her annoyance.

 

_"Well??"_

 

He runs his hand through his hair. "I, uh, used a hammer I found in the cellar."

 

Silence.

 

She closes her eyes, frowning, with a small shake of her head:

"You... you didn't have any hammer in your hand--"

 

"I hid it before you got out of the bedroom. It's still behind the dresser," he adds, vaguely gesturing toward the dresser in the hallway, "if you need it."

 

She blinks, swallows. Confused.

"--so you did it on purpose?"

 

"Yes."

 

" _Why_? Why the fuck?"

She's not even angry anymore, just dumbfounded. 

 

He sits back in his chair, resigned. 

"The... lock was combined with the door handle, there wasn't a separate key. So ---if you locked it from the inside, the door couldn't be opened from the outside without ---breaking it down."

 

He stops there, and looks at her then.  

 

She quirks an eyebrow. "And??"

 

"If one of us slipped inside and lost consciousness... it'd be an unecessary loss of time to have to break down the door."

 

She's still looking at him like he's insane.

"I mean, what's the solution, breaking all the doors that have that kind of lock? That's ridiculous."

 

Right then, it clicks. 

 

She freezes.

 

Then sits back.

 

Seemingly remembering a few things she told him when she thought he couldn't understand her. 

 

They sit in silence for a moment, until she says out loud what he hasn't:

 

"...you thought I was going to off myself in there."

 

The silence then, however short, is simply _dreadful_. 

 

"No."

He's genuine, but he doubts she hears it in his tone. "I never---thought you would."

 

He searches for words.

"I was getting anxious. I...you spend a lot of time in the shower. And I have... a vivid imagination," he finishes in a murmur.

 

She looks at him for a long time before speaking again. 

 

"You broke the phone. We're in the middle of nowhere."

 

Her voice is very small.

"...what good did it do to break the door?"

 

"None," he breathes. "It's something I did because I felt powerless."

 

He waits, and when she doesn't say anything, he adds: "It's me, Rey. It's not you. I---I'm an idiot."

 

He sees her swallow. 

 

She flatens her hands on the table and leaves them there for a moment.

 

Eventually, she slowly pushes herself up without a word. 

 

"Wait---" he searches for words once more.

 

She stops and looks at him.

 

"I ---I also... made a dessert," he tells her, repressing a wince at how weak he sounds. "It's not--"

 

"I'm tired," she says softly, standing by the table, looking down.

"I think I'll pass."

 

Nothing can be said to counter that.

 

So he just sits there.

 

The bedroom door shuts with a soft click a few seconds later. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Haven't had a dream in a long time / See, the life I've had / Can make a good man bad / So for once in my life / Let me get what I want / Lord knows, it would be the first time / Lord knows, it would be the first time](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2nxQLJmshak)
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> I still don't know if I leave tomorrow, or the day after, so the next update might arrive tomorrow or this week-end... Really sorry that I can't be more precise. Bless you for reading <3<3<3


	15. Fulfilling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Translations are in the end notes! Thank you for reading <3
> 
> 2\. BEN'S VIRGINITY
> 
> Okay, so. 
> 
> Here it is, people, _the talk_. 
> 
> A lot of you thought that Ben was serious when he confessed that Rey was his first, others took it as a sarcasm -incidentally, many asked me about my intentions (on AO3, on tumblr, and on twitter). 
> 
> So for those of you who care about the author's intentions (because I personally believe they don't really matter, but others think they do), this note is for you. 
> 
> Those who don't, you can proceed with the fic and skip this note. 
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> So here it is: as an author, I meant it as a joke, and I tried to make it clear it was one. 
> 
> Now, regardless of my intentions and of the context clues I put in the scene (and previous chapters) to try and make it evident Ben was joking, if so many of you believed he was serious, it must mean that the joke wasn't so obvious after all. 
> 
> I could explain to you, _as a reader_ , why it should be interpreted as a joke, but if a scene needs to be explained it means that I've failed, somewhere, as a writer. For that reason, just so my intentions get to be more apparent with his character, I've made two very minor modifications in that scene that should make it all slightly less confusing for future readers. 
> 
> That being said.  
> I actually _very firmly_ believe in the death of the author: it means that I believe the author's intentions don't matter once the text is produced, and that the interpretation of a text is left to anyone who's willing to read it and have an opinion about it. 
> 
> So, if according to you the text shows that Ben was in fact a secret virgin, and that it's true to his character ----then he totally was. 
> 
> I should add that, in the end, it actually won't have any impact on the story. So by all means. 
> 
> Believe about him whatever makes your heart sigh =)  
>  

 

No one has any idea how fucking hard it is to pretend not to speak a language you've been able to speak since forever. It's a CIA level kind of undercover. 

 

It's emotionally extremely demanding -and exhausting. You can't know what it's like unless you've lived it.

 

In retrospect, he can't believe he imposed that on himself for that long.

 

The day he breaks into this house, he's far from imagining that this is what the next two weeks are going to be like.

 

Yet there's no hesitation when a decision must be made.

 

Sitting on the couch in the dark, his legs and his head aching from walking far too long under the sun in his suit, his hip throbbing, his shirt drenched in sweat, his entire body sore for the lack of rest, he tries to come up with a plan, just something to go by for the days to come.

 

Where to next? He tries to remember how much he has left on his bank account, which friends live where, and who could maybe put up with him for a little while. 

 

He's destroyed and thrown away his phone at dawn, that same morning -but either way he's pretty sure there's no service around here. 

He'll have to keep on walking, the next day, to a town where he'll be able to buy a new one.

 

Even though his sugar deprived mind is racing against all odds through his options, his limbs seem to be heavier and heavier, their weight pulling him further into the couch and a much needed slumber, as his head slowly tilts backward and his eyes roll back as well---

 

His head jerks forward, his eyes open wide. 

 

The chanting of the cicadas fills the house.

It fades out as the front door closes. 

 

Houses like these, isolated, hours by foot from any sort of commodities, are usually occupied by their owners two, three months a year, during summer, if they're occupied at all, and  _there wasn't any car_ , and  _all the shutters were shut_ , and, and---

His brain short-circuits, and he freezes the moment she's in sight. 

 

The average woman. Young.

 

Of course. 

 

This certified  _vieille France_  area, filled with old-fucks in their third age  _had_  to count  _one_  twenty-something and naturally, her house is the one he picked.

 

He couldn't have found a demented old lady in here.

 

 _No_ , it had to be the granddaughter.

 

\--- _putain de merde de sa race la pute de bordel de MERDE._

 

His body is already protesting at the prospect of leaving and having to walk again---

_\--again?_

 

_Again??_

 

Technically, he  _could_  still leave. 

Get up, apologize, maybe, and leave. 

 

Instead, he doesn't move an inch and barely breathes as he sees her pass in front of him, dragging her feet in direction to the kitchen. She bends over the sink to drink from the tap.

 

A minute later, she's staring back at him. 

 

He stares too, his mouth dry, expecting her to scream. 

 

She doesn't scream. 

 

And frankly, she looks like she's on drugs, her eyes are wide open. 

Maybe she is. 

 

As if to prove him right, that very special person tells him  _he's in her house_. 

 

He's tempted to go:  _oh no? I'm in the wrong house? Oh dear, how silly of me. I hope I didn't cause you too much trouble---_

 

But he doesn't pay much attention to that in the end.

Because she said it in English. 

 

With a strong british accent. 

 

_Oh?_

 

His poor atrophied mind is trying to make sense of that detail.

 

And when she mentions the  _police,_  an alarm sets off. 

 

He finds his voice back.

 

And croaks French words at her. 

 

He's stunned that he manages to be  _that_  amount of sharp in his physical and mental condition, quick to put up that barrier between them when he barely has the energy to think straight. 

 

If he shows her that he's not dangerous, she might just let him stay the night, maybe, and eat something, and take a shower ---and then, he'll be gone. 

 

No need to explain where he comes from, why he's here, where he's going -why he's in the condition he's in.

 

It's an unecessary precaution, maybe, as he very much doubts anyone would come here and ask her questions -but if there  _was_  someone, just if, _if if_  there was someone, and that someone asked her if she saw a six foot two man with a long face and long dark hair, in a grey suit, and with a sportbag --he'd also rather not give her more informations than that. 

 

The situation isn't ideal, but it could be worse. 

 

Yes.

Playing dumb and speaking French seems like the right kind of move in every regard, then.

 

He doesn't know her, and he doesn't want to know her, and incidentally, he very much like that she doesn't know him and won't get to know him at all. 

 

Just in case she does something stupid and runs away while he sleeps, in the meantime, he removes the bells he finds at the necks of the hideous dolls perched the shelves of the living-room and ties them to the handles of the front door and the French doors. 

 

He ends up cleaning everything as a gesture of goodwill, but also because  _Jeeeesus_ , for the love of God and all that is holy, how is it even possible that he didn't notice the amount of filth around here? 

He's not even able to stop once he starts cleaning despite his urgent need to sleep, and that's saying something. 

 

Already he regrets not being able to let her know that she's gross. 

 

But then, she falls asleep on the sofa. 

And after dinner, she goes to bed around eight.

 

Somehow, that's how he knows.

 

That silly woman isn't being lazy. 

She's quite literally  _tired of life_. 

 

He falls asleep, after cleaning everything and a much needed shower, thinking that he'll leave the next day.

It'll be like they never met.

 

He tells himself that that first night ---and all the other nights that follow.

 

 

Quite early on, he figures that, the less he'll talk, the less he'll risk letting anything slip. 

 

 

The hardest is to refreine to swear in English, as for some reason it comes more naturally to him than swearing in French.

 

He starts a  _fuck_ , limiting it to a  _ffff_ at the last moment the way a parent would if a toddler was around, and she's too distracted to notice.

A lot of of the time it ends up with something sounding like  _ffffputain_.

 

As days pass, he actually has nightmares about speaking English in front of her by mistake. The worst one being a dream where he speaks in English in his sleep, and she happens to be walk past him right at the same moment. 

 

He takes that as a sign that the situation is becoming equally serious and just fucking ridiculous. 

 

Yup, he should really tell her. 

 

He should, the sooner the better. 

 

Shouldn't he?

 

Life really would be much simpler. 

 

The peace of mind he was supposed to get from that little omission comes to a price. 

 

Sure, at times, it plays in his favor. 

 

When she has a comment to give about the food, whether it's because she wants to eat something else, or because she wants to remind him that she's letting him eat for free, he nods like a moron and goes "oui, food", like the cheap version of a modern Tarzan. 

 

She's exasperated. 

 

He can't blame her. 

 

But many times, she's looking for something, or asks him something, and  _he has to ignore her_ , despite that he knows the answer to whatever question she asked.

 

The damn tennis ball she endlessly throws against the living-room wall, for instance, is almost always on the counter of the kicthen,  but  _he can't show her_ when she's looking for it, or throw it at her in retaliation since she always leaves her shit everywhere.

 

He can't show her, because that would be suspicious. 

 

It's a lot of frustration to deal with. 

 

And that's not the worst kind of frustration he has to face as the days pass. 

 

After a week of being the platonic roomies that they are, she loses it. 

 

And starts coming onto him. Hard. 

 

It's fairly innocent in the beginning, but then --the things she says to him.

Jesus fucking Christ. 

 

He has to maintain a poker face no matter what, like it's the most common thing. 

If he was a demon and he had to come up with a torture, that would be the one. 

 

Most of the time, he doesn't manage to keep a blank expression, he just doesn't.

 

He turns his back to her, or outright leaves the room. 

 

One day, it's a close one. 

It's noon, and he serves her the red pesto sauce to go with her pasta, stopping her as she's about to shove some in her mouth to grate some Parmigiano-Reggiano over her plate.

 

When he glances at her as he's standing right by her side, she's looking back at him like he came down straight from Heaven to her, her face almost grave and marked with a strange reverence--

-as he sits down, he on the other hand feels a sudden rush of tenderness for her.

 

He realizes he's _happy_  to have cooked for her.

 

And that he might be quite happy, in fact, to do so every day -to know that she'll enjoy her meal, and be sated, and that he's the one making that happen.

 

He has a hard time figuring out what it is exactly that makes it all so fulfilling, but it is. 

 

It  _is_  fulfilling, more so than any type of job he's done in the past. 

 

It's stupid, but he's warm inside at the sight of her eating what he prepared for her, and he smiles, then, twisting his fork in his spaghettis. She's busy slicing some bread. 

 

He's shoving some pasta in his mouth when she nonchalantly discloses:

"...what I wouldn't give to suck you clean, you don't even know."

 

\---causing him to nearly die while choking on his food.

 

_Holy fuck._

 

He slams his fist on the table to get himself to inhale sharply -and once he's able to, he sees through his blurred vision that she's staring at him.

 

He recovers by vaguely pointing at the inside of his mouth, going with a : "---chaud, c'est super chaud."

 

"...'burnt yourself?"

 

He keeps from nodding and simply repeats: "...oui, c'est vraiment chaud, là."

 

Yes. 

Hot indeed. 

 

No one talks like that. 

 

_Who is this woman??_

 

A few times, he actually wonders if she's not suspecting something.

She's suspecting something, and now she's trying to get him to react.

 

That's the only logical explanation he's got. 

 

Let her try, he's determined.

 

It doesn't do a whole lot for his situation, but several times he finds some sort of comfort in muttering things in French back at her.

 

"...cherche-moi, tu vas finir par me trouver."

 

"Tu m'as l'air d'avoir besoin d'être bousculée un bon coup."

 

"Un de ces quatre je vais te donner le hoquet, tu vas pas comprendre ce qui t'arrive."

 

He's just careful never to look at her while he says those things, his eyes down on the cucumber he's chopping or the laundry he's folding. 

 

She gives him her most innocent smile, clearly pleased with herself. 

 

She's got no fucking idea. 

 

In the end, though, the most challenging isn't any of that. It's not her aggressive flirting, nor his frustration when he can't swear the way he wants to, or give her simple informations. 

 

The most challenging part of this ordeal he's created for himself, is when she suddenly falls into one of her casual monologue about life being worthless. 

 

He doesn't mind hearing it. 

 

But  _having to act_   _like he's not hearing it_ , and not being able to tell her that things will be alright, just... makes him feel physically  _sick._

 

He can't stand it. 

 

Sometimes, he can see that her sadness numbs her, and he wishes he could simply  _hold her._

 

Defensively, he gets impatient with himself in those moments.

 _...who is she to him? No one._  

 

There are a lot of sad people in the world, and he's not on a mission to clean and cook for all of them -or even any of them.

 

It makes sense that he cooks for her: he's staying in her house and eating her food, so the least he can do is cook and clean. 

 

He certainly doesn't do it for the sole reason of hearing her hum while she eats, or to see her bury her face in a clean sheet to inhale the smell of the laundry detergent.  

 

She calls him an asshole a lot.

 

She never calls him an idiot. 

 

She doesn't look down on him, doesn't treat him like he's less than. 

 

She looks at him like he's necessary to her, whether it's true or not. 

 

She looks like she's grateful for him -whether that's true or not. 

 

And every morning, he hears her hurriedly pad into the living room, before he gets to see her shoulders relax right as she sees him. 

 

He pours her coffee. 

"Thank you."

 

He makes her bed. 

"Thank you."

 

He serves her a plate.

"Thank you."

 

He tells himself that, given how they met and because of the lie he let her believe, he'll have no choice but to leave eventually. 

 

 

And that he's just staying one more day. 

 

 

Just one more day. 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Though I am breaking down, again / I am aching now, to let you in](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pD9zp18Zp_8)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> TRANSLATIONS
> 
> "---putain de merde de sa race la pute de bordel de MERDE.": those are just French curse words for you, ladies and gentlemen ^^
> 
> "chaud, c'est super chaud" and "oui, c'est vraiment chaud là" >>> means "Hot, that's really hot", and "yes, it's really hot." 
> 
> In French, _hot_ is used as an adjective to designate a high temperature, or something sexy, OR something that's difficult to handle ;) 
> 
> Dirty Talk!
> 
> "...cherche-moi, tu vas finir par me trouver."  
> "...tease-me, you'll end up getting what you wish for."
> 
> "Tu m'as l'air d'avoir besoin d'être bousculée un bon coup."  
> "Looks like you might need a good shove."
> 
> "Un de ces quatre je vais te donner le hoquet, tu vas pas comprendre ce qui t'arrive."  
> "One of those days I'm going to make you hiccup, you won't know what's happening to you."


	16. Too much salt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People! I almost forgot: check this out, mrex did [this for us](https://66.media.tumblr.com/80156349b8de2013d53d4fdbde5f3bc3/tumblr_pjar1pNbCu1x09rzzo1_640.jpg), and it's so goddamn LOVELY =')  
> Thank you so much  
> (You can access their [Ao3 HERE](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mrex) and their tumblr [HERE](https://m-rex.tumblr.com/))

 

The bedroom door creaks as Rey slowly pushes it open. The sun shines bright from the living-room. She takes the time to listen, but can't hear anything from where she's standing. 

 

Half-awake she finally heads to the living-room, her bare feet gently padding on the cold tile. She stops at the end of the couch. 

 

There he is. Still asleep. 

 

Her chest swells with conflicted feelings at his sight, but also, her stomach unties, softens.

 

She takes three quiet steps closer. Savoring being able to look at him good without him looking back. 

 

The curl of his hair on his temples. His too big of a body hunched on his side, the muscles over and between his ribs, opening and closing to the slow rhythm of his breathing. His bare feet against the arm of the couch. 

 

Her eyes go back on his face to observe the way his neck bends, the way his ear shows under his hair, the way he pouts slightly. 

 

He looks like an actual angel. 

Asshole.

 

She coffs. 

 

Then, when he doesn't move at all, his face still as serene as one of a new born, she coffs again -louder. 

 

She's bent over him and watches with great interest as his body stretches with a grunt, curling from the base of his spine to his neck, his feet pushing against the arm of the couch while his eyes remain closed, until they finally squint at the too bright sunlight covering this entire side of the living-room. His sleepy gaze lands on her face.  

 

She sees his eyes widen briefly with a hint of wariness. 

 

Is it weird that she's standing right next to him when he sleeps?

 

If only she cared. 

 

She murmurs coldly, as if to herself: 

 

"...what makes you think I won't try to hit you on the head with something while you sleep?"

 

He blinks then narrows his eyes at her under the sunlight, attentive. 

 

"...or use kitchen knives on you? ---you don't know me, do you?"

 

His adam's apple bobs.

 

His voice is hoarse when he speaks: 

"...you know I can understand you now, right?"

 

"---I know," she replies cooly. 

 

He seems equally unimpressed. 

 

"Good." 

He sits up, before he informs her, definitive: 

"I'm gonna show you how to use the Moka pot."

 

Her eyes widen. 

" _No_."

 

She sounds way more horrified than she intended to. 

 

"...yes."

 

He gets to his feet, rubbing his face, either oblivious to or uncaring about the distress his words causes. 

 

She doesn't exactly know why the perspective bothers her that much -she's just sure about how she feels. 

 

He walks to the kitchen, still trying to fully emerge from his sleep, and she follows him, her chin up with outrage.

_"I don't want to know how to use it."_

 

He grabs the Moka pot and starts mindlessly unscrewing it, still not giving the situation the attention it clearly deserves. His eyes on what he's doing, he asks with a genuine curious tone:

"What if I stop making you coffee every time you ask me to?"

 

"Then I'll stop drinking coffee," she retorts sharply -as if that could possibly be of any importance to him. It's not. She's got no leverage in this argument.

If he doesn't want to make her coffee, she can't make him. 

 

"Good news for your heart," he shoots back, tone flat, lightly pushing her aside to get to the fridge. 

 

No. 

This is not part of the deal. The deal is he takes care of --- _things,_  while she lets him stay.

 

Everything is going to shit ever since he speaks English. 

 

They could have been blissfully ignorant of each others' embarrassing traumas -him of hers at least- and just silently understand each other's needs -him  _hers_  at least- for as long as none of them decided to learn the other one's language.

 

 _Blissfully ignorant_ , the way they've been since day one. 

 

She unvoluntary winces at the memory of last night's dinner.

 

If she had known, she never would have asked about the door. 

Since he speaks English they have to  _talk_ , and it doesn't make things easier -it encumbers their now fragile routine with words, and throws the whole thing off balance. 

 

She herself has no more excuses not to ask questions  _she desperately doesn't want to know the answers of._

 

And now she has to make her coffee herself? This is fucking chaos! 

 

"Is that the same dress than yesterday?"

 

She jerks her head up. 

He's looking at said dress from behind the fridge door. 

 

She narrows her eyes, letting her coffee-related anger find shelter in what is this time an adequate reaction:

_"So??"_

 

He shrugs, then looks back down at the inside of the fridge door to grab the coffee jar.

 

She knows that question isn't about her wearing the same dress two days in a row. 

 

This is about the shower she didn't take after he made her sweat and came on her. 

 

Because  _now_ , it seems, she must imperatively know what he thinks of her hygiene at all time. 

 

Nevermind if she gets her feelings hurt in the process.

 

Fuck him. 

 

She knows what it must look like when she pointedly lets herself down on a chair and crosses her arms like a spoiled child, trying to clearly indicate to him that she won't get anywhere near the counter -but she can't help it. 

 

To make matters worse, after glancing at her, he speaks to her with the tone of a blasé nanny:

"Stop sulking."

 

She stays quiet as he unscrews the coffee jar, then opens the drawer to grab a spoon, and for a moment there she thinks he might have dropped it. 

 

Nope. 

 

"Come here, I'll show you how much water you need. There's a line---"

 

_"Why does it bother you so much to make my coffee?"_

 

She's aware of how ridiculous she sounds, yet her question is genuine, and her pain now, however laughable, is also as real as can be.

 

There must be a way to reason this man. 

 

"Why does it bother you so much to make you own?" He asks in return. 

 

_"That's beside the point."_

 

His eyebrows shoot up, and if he was barely anything else than indifferent a second before, she can see that it amuses him now. 

 

"You already do everything," she points out, "what difference does a small task like this make?"

 

That's as weak as an argument can be, she realizes. It sounded right in her head, though. 

 

"It  _is_ a small, simple task. Which is why I thought you'd want to know how to do it."

 

Cornered, she's trying to think of something else, while it seems decreasingly possible to explain to herself why she'd get so worked up over this. 

 

"This way you can make yourself coffee whenever you want to," he explains, trying to be soothing when she lowers her head -before attempting to lighten the mood:

"...don't you wanna be an _independent woman?"_

 

But she catches him off guard, she supposes, when she jumps in her seat instead of laughing it off. 

 

 _"No, I don't!"_  She yells, completely giving up on hiding how upset she is completely, the words out before she can think -her hands fisting her dress in her lap.

"I've been an independent woman  _since I was five_ , alright? That shit's overrated, I need a break!"

 

He stops in his track. Her throat tightens. 

The silence that follows makes it impossible for her to hold his stare. 

 

She's not angry anymore. She's embarrassed with herself. 

 

She looks down at her hands as they start twiddling with the hem of her dress, waiting for him to speak, but he doesn't.

 

Well, at least it sounds like he gave up. 

 

She can't tell if he thinks she's crazy and really, she doesn't want to know.

Somehow she cares about his opinion of her, now. 

 

Wordlessly, he turns to the counter to pick up the lower part of the Moka pot -then goes to the sink to fill it with water. 

 

He then slices, toasts the bread, and sets the table -placing the butter, the fig jam, and her plate in front of her- the same way: quietly, patiently, without a word -letting the boiling water in the Moka pot fill the room while her shame grows that much thicker. 

 

She swallows when he carefully puts down a Duralex glass of coffee in front of her, not daring to look up at him, afraid of what she might find in his eyes or in a frown of his mouth.  

 

She doesn't move and doesn't say anything when he drops a sugar in it, wondering if she'll be able to drink that fucking coffee at all after all. 

 

But just as she thinks that,  she sees him leave a spoon in her glass -before the same hand pushes a strand of hair away from her face, his knuckles softly brushing across her cheekbone with a murmur: 

 

"...here's your coffee, chaton."

 

The touch, the words, the gesture, however brief and insignificant they might be to him, make it all better in the blink of an eye.

 

She thinks she can feel her soul sighing.  

 

She still doesn't know what  _chaton_  means, but she decides it's her favorite word. 

 

"Thank you," she breathes. 

 

"Je t'en prie."

 

When he sits down, she finally dares to glance at him and he doesn't look mad like she feared he was. He's not amused or bored either -both could have been hurtful. He looks sorry. 

 

But even she knows he doesn't have anything to be sorry for this time. 

 

She timidly pulls a slice of bread to her, and asks, hoping to show she's not mad at him herself: 

"--do all French people cook?"

 

He raises an eyebrow, while buttering his bread.  

 

"Um... no," he admits. Then, before he takes a bite: 

"Do all British people have shitty tastes in food?"

 

She shrugs.

"Basically."

 

And because it doesn't seem like he'll make anything of that answer, she asks again, stirring the sugar at the bottom of her glass: 

"How did you learn how to cook?"

 

She could hardly think of this as a touchy subject to start a conversation at breakfast, yet she sees his shoulders tense a bit -although it doesn't sound like he's trying to delay his answer when he hesitates.

It just sounds like he actually doesn't know how to answer. 

 

"Euuh..."

 

The question is easy enough, she thought. 

 

"Did your father teach you? --your mother?"

 

"Uh, no. My mother wasn't ---around."

 

Oh. 

She of all people should have anticipated that possibility. 

But then given how oblivious she sometimes is to things that are hidden in plain sight, maybe not.  

 

"She's American," he says again, by way of explaining, apparently. 

 

It surprises her. "She is?"

 

"Yup."

 

"How she likes it here?"

 

Again, hesitation. 

 

" _Uuuh_ \-- not... a lot."

A pause. 

"That I know of."

 

Probably aware then of how evasive he is, he tries to rectify it with a firmer tone:

 

"She lives in the US, now... that I know of," he repeats, lower.

 

He even looks at her: "She'd come once a year when I was a kid, for a few weeks -to stay with my father and me. To answer your question, I guess I learned how to cook during those years. My father --wasn't making that much effort to welcome her, and I thought that... if the house was cleaned when she arrived, and I cooked for her while she was there... that it'd make her stay more agreeable."

 

Rey senses where it's headed before he confirms it for her: 

"I thought maybe she wouldn't take her visits as a  _chore_  as much as she did." He clears his throat, his discomfort more evident with it -but he doesn't sound bitter. Only resigned.

"I know that I've learned how to cook a few recipes when I was quite young, and that's why."

 

It's stupid of her to ask -the answer is written all over him- but she still does with a very small voice, in the foolish hope that she might be wrong. 

 

"...and --so?"

 

"So what?" He asks softly, his eyes down on the bread he's spreading jam on.

 

"---did she like your cuisine?"

 

There is no dramatic pause there. He simply states the facts. 

 

"She stopped coming when I was fourteen. I haven't seen her since." 

 

Rey looks at him bite in his toast.

 

That should help her do the same.

 

But she doesn't move. 

 

There's the ghost of a shrug in his shoulder as he says, his mouth full:  

"...so, you know. Too much salt, maybe."

 

He seems to understand when he looks at her just how grave the story might be for someone who isn't used to it, and that maybe he failed coming off as nonchalant. So he jokes about it. 

"I think that's when I became an independent woman myself."

  

\---then changes the subject. 

 

"You know... We---" he swallows thickly, seemingly more nervous than he should have been talking about his mother. "We'll have to go see if there's a supermarket, somewhere."

 

She stills. 

 

He remains silent for a bit too long, then goes on: 

"--there's still plenty of food in the freezer, but eventually, there won't be."

 

What's implied there is somewhat subtle, and she's been distracted enough since she woke up to miss it.

Yet she doesn't miss it. 

 

Buying food in a supermarket.

Meaning he'll stay until there isn't any food left -and after.

 

He'll stay, if she lets him stay. 

 

Her response is tentative, hesitant -but it's there. 

 

A nod of her head. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Here's what a Duralex glass is](https://www.vacancesfrancaises.com/fr/verres-incassables-duralex/481-verre-cantine-a-cafe-duralex.html) -it's one of the top exported French products of all time, used primarily in school restaurants because it's quite resistant and doesn't cut as much when broken- you can find some in many French homes and in the south, a lot of people drink their coffees in them. 
> 
> Translations!
> 
> "Chaton" is still the equivalent of "Sweetheart"
> 
> When Rey thanks Ben, he says: "Je t'en prie", which you've probably guessed it means "You're welcome."


	17. Nobody denies the existence of cannibals

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE LONG NOTE:
> 
> In this chapter, there'll be conversations between people who are all supposed to be speaking in French. 
> 
> Obviously, I've written everything in English, but I've also slipped a few French words in there; all of them popular or close enough to their English translations to be easily grasped by non-French speakers (with only three exceptions). 
> 
> You don't need to know those words to understand the conversations, they're not key words in the dialogue -but just in case you prefer to know beforehand, here's a glossary: 
> 
> 1.  
> A _bistrot_ is a pub. 
> 
> 2.  
>  _minot_ = southern French word for _kid_
> 
> 3.  
>  _C'est la vie_ = "That's life."
> 
> 4.  
> Karim calls Ben a _BG_  
>  a _BG_ , in France, is a _Beau Gosse_ or a _Belle Gosse_ , and it literally means: a beautiful kid. It's slang to appreciate how good someone looks or to appreciate someone's prowess. _"-She got into Harvard! -BG! "_ (so it could be translated by "Lookin' good" or "Well done!")
> 
> 5.  
>  _Ça marche_ = You got it 
> 
> 6.  
>  _Wesh_ , that Karim says to Ben, is the French equivalent of _Yo_. 
> 
> 6.  
>  _Ouais_ = Yeah
> 
> 7.  
>  _Non, ça va_ = No, it's okay
> 
> 8.  
>  _Sûr?_ = You sure?
> 
> 9.  
>  _Bien sûr_ = Of course
> 
> 10.  
>  _Merci, frère_ = Thank you, brother
> 
> 11.  
>  _Pas de problème_ = No problem
> 
>  
> 
> Every other French words are translated within the text. More references in the end notes.

 

There are some things in the world that Ben knows exist for a fact.

He's never seen one, but he knows for a fact that lions exist. He's never been there, but he knows for a fact that there is a moon. He also just  _knows_  that some people, out there, enjoys eating other people. 

You only get to experience some things through movies -fiction. And if most people were to experience them in real life, most people would lose their fucking minds. 

Regardless of how inconceivable it seems that anyone would eat someone else, nobody denies the existence of cannibals -it's just common knowledge. 

 

To face some realities without losing it, one possibility is to live in denial for as long as possible -before realization inevitably sinks in.

...before it's too late, and that all one can do then is wonder in disbelief again and again: 

 

_\---I thought this only happened in movies?_

_I thought it only happened in movies._

_...I thought---?_

 

Reality can be pretty surreal.

Most people don't know that.

 

Life is all about routine, patterns, cycles -until it's not. 

 

A year before Ben leaves everything behind, life is all about routine. 

He opens the bistrot where he works downtown, called  _Les souris vertes_ , at seven every morning from Tuesday to Thursday, and from three PM to eleven on Friday and Saturday. 

He pours drinks and serves plates. That's about it.  

 

Marius, a grey-haired, short, stubby man -the owner of  _Les souris vertes-_  is satisfied with Ben. 

He doesn't show it much, because he's not the kind to... ever smile, or show any sort of emotion, but he is -he's satisfied with him as a bartender and as a waiter. 

Not that it's such an exploit.

Marius isn't the easiest person to satisfy, but the place is hardly a challenge to handle. There aren't that many customers, if at all, depending on the hour, and if fifty-five year old Marius didn't have a limp, maybe he would have handled the whole thing on his own. 

Ben has never been a bartender before starting here, but he's a quick study, especially since he makes the same drinks every day for the same people -middle-aged men who comes in at the same hour without fail.  

 

For the first time in ages, nothing threatens the possibility of a quiet, stable life.

Marius needs someone for as long as Ben is willing to work for him, until he himself retires.

 

Grenoble is a city nice enough to live in.  

 

\--although Ben is bored a lot of the time at work.

But that's the price of peace, he supposes. 

 

He doesn't care for most of the men coming in, and there's only a few people he can count on to distract him. 

 

Fortunée is one of them. She's a sixty-something neighbor who comes in every morning to have her coffee and call the French President a  _connard de capitaliste,_ acapitalistic asshole, and a  _putain de banquier,_ a fucking banker. 

 

She calls Ben  _ma caille_ , sweet pea, which is ridiculous, but he loves it -and while her and Marius hate each other they always have each other's back. 

 

Five, six, seven men younger than the average customer here -with their hair cut short, some in jeans and others in sweatpants- come in from time to time. 

 

They first look at Ben with a lot of distrust in their eyes as they pass him to go downstairs -where no customer is allowed to go, Ben thought, until Marius informs him they're the exception. 

 

Ben has no intention of asking further details -he reckons it's better that way, but also, he doesn't care. It's Marius' business, not his. 

 

He gets to see soon enough, though, that those distrustful men, seemingly aged from eighteen to thirty, are pretty harmless, and more polite and respectful to him in the end than a lot of the customers Ben has to deal with -not that he's got anything to complain about. 

 

Among them, Camille and Piotr sometimes chat with him, the same way they chat with Karim, the other bartender of  _Les Souris Vertes_. 

 

Ben gets along well with Karim, very well even, but Karim's shifts always start when Ben's end, or the other way around.

 

Karim is the definition of a  _sweet pea_ , like Fortunée would say. The most altruistic person there is, always trying to help, just someone who's really --- _kind._  Other than that, he's six-foot three, so taller than Ben -and built like a fucking tank, because Karim spends a good deal of his free time at the gym, and is crazy about martial arts in general.

 

He's probably the one who Ben feels the closest to, but he doesn't get to hang with him very often. 

 

In the end, the one Ben gets to enjoy the company of the most without faking it, is Ange, a blond man of an average height, averagely built. 

Ange usually go downstairs with the others, but it happens quite often, still, that he takes five minutes to have a beer and chat with Ben. 

He's a direct salesman, he tells Ben the first few times they talk together, he hates working and he loves Fortunée -so he's relatable in many ways. 

If anybody asked Fortunée how she would describe Ange, the old lady would say  _charmant_ , again and again.

He's charming, extremely charming. 

He just knows what to do with people, puts them at ease without too much effort. He smiles and compliments everyone a lot, yet his  observations always sound heartfelt. 

"You're a hard worker, Ben, everyone knows it, " Ange tells him one day, with admiration in his voice. "You'd deserve more than to be a bartender, but I'm not complaining."

Another day, as he's perched on one of the stools at the counter, and he twists toward Marius who's cleaning the tables behind him: "You hired a good one, Marius. That man's a blessing."

Marius eyes him, then resumes his task without a word.

Nothing surprising from the older man. 

 

Months pass, and life is just  _easy_. 

 

One morning, Ange sits at the counter and asks Ben if he'd be interested to make a quick buck. He needs him and Karim to assure the security, sort of, of a business meeting, that same night downtown at eleven. 

 

 _Travail au noir_ : undeclared work.  

Wouldn't be the first time for Ben. 

 

"--it's about a club I could end up owning," Ange explains while looking down at his phone, "here, in Grenoble. The people I've got to meet, they never sleep. If I had any say in this, we wouldn't talk business at this ungodly hour." He sighs quietly. " _C'est la vie._ " 

 

Naturally, Ben accepts, because why wouldn't he? 

 

Ange still reassures him:

"Don't worry. You'll stay outside, near the door --and it's more for show than anything else. I'll get you and Karim  _suits_. Gotta impress those morons." 

 

Ben chuckles.

Suits? Is he hoping to just find suits laying around? 

"I don't think you have our sizes," he says instead.

 

Without looking up from his phone, Ange says, loud enough so that Camille, who's sitting at the back of the lobby with Piotr, can hear him.

"Camille, take Ben's and Karim's sizes, and check if we got any suits for them."

 

 _"Ça marche,"_   acquiesces Camille.  

 

That same night, Camille brings two suits to  _Les Souris Vertes_. And they fit. 

Turns out they apparently had them laying around after all. 

 

Karim whistles, teasing, and looks him up and down when Ben comes back from downstairs with his suit on:

"Le _BG ---_ OK, watch out, Ladies!"

 

"Shut the fuck up," Ben mutters. 

 

Karim grins even wider instead:

" _Looking good_ , Benjamin. What about me?" He asks, opening his arms so Ben can have a good view.

 

"So you want me to call you  _beautiful_ , is that it?"

 

Karim gets closer to him, pulling on his sleeve to get Ben to look at it: "Wesh, Ben.  _Do you have any idea how much a suit like this costs?"_

 

"Why, do you?"

 

"I mean, it costs a lot, I think. Touch, touch it... how soft--"

 

"OK calm down, Cinderella --Ange expects them back once the night is over." 

 

The job isn't that different from anything he's done before as a bouncer. 

They drive downtown, to a grey building like every other. 

 

Everybody disappears into said building -Ange, Camille, Piotr, and the others, along with three dudes also in suits who arrive later--- except Ben and Karim, who both stand at the door in the cold. 

 

Naturally, it isn't long before Karim gets his phone out and shows Ben slo-mo videos of kickboxing fights.

 

Ben knows about a few combat techniques, but he's not  _all that_  in that domain. 

He's truly here for show, as Ange said ---no doubt about it. 

 

Everything goes well, as Ben expected it would, and everybody goes home unchanged.

 

It's the first job he does for Ange, and he's got no reason to refuse considering working for him again. 

 

No reason except, maybe, what happens with Marius two months later.

At least, it should have made him  _pause_  a bit more than it did. 

 

One morning, just like that, Ange comes in with a large, warm, contagious smile, that Ben can't help but give back. 

"You're looking at the new owner of  _Les Souris Vertes,_ " Ange then proudly announces.

 

Ben's smile vanishes.

"---what?"

 

Ange sits on a stool.

"That's right, Benji. I'm your boss, now.  _Behave_."

 

Ben doesn't know why, but he looks around.

Maybe does he hope to meet someone who's as shocked as him, but the customers present aren't attentive at all at what's being said, and Camille and Piotr are keeping their eyes on their phones.

"How?" Ben finally asks. 

 

Ange shrugs.

"Marius sold it to me." 

 

"...just like that?"

 

"What do you mean? I'm confused."

 

_You and me both, pal._

 

"I mean... From one day to the next?"

 

"Ah! Well,  _no_. It's been on the table for months, and we sealed the deal two weeks ago," Ange explains. 

 

Ben slowly nods.

 

Still, a small voice inside him keeps going  _dafuq? ---_ _Dafuq??_

 

"Marius didn't say anything," he finally dares saying, without adding: to me,  _his employee_.  

 

Ange is looking down at his phone as he speaks.

"How are you even surprised? You know the man. Not much of a talker, is he?"

 

Ben keeps quiet behind the counter. 

Trying to get used to the news. 

 

Ange looks up from his phone, sighing. "I personally didn't talk about it because I didn't want to ruin the surprise. Looks like you're surprised."

 

"I am," Ben admits.

 

"In a good way, I hope."

 

Ben's hesitation is a second too long to go unnoticed. 

"...yeah, sure." 

 

Ange doesn't comment on it. 

And at that time, Ben's sure he'll see Marius again.  

 

Ange finds him for another  _travail au noir_  later on that week -and Ben isn't wary about it becoming a habit. 

It's more money, and it's easy money. 

 

Ange catches him just as he steps into  _Les Souris Vertes_  for the beginning of his shift around 3pm. Camille and Piotr are sitting at the back of the lobby -again. 

"Ben, what do you say if instead of taking care of the bar this afternoon, you do me a favor?"

 

Ange gently pushes against Ben's back to get him to turn around and go back out. 

"Sure, what do you need?"

 

Outside, Ange walks up to a black Audi A3. Ben has already seen it parked around here a few times. 

You can't exactly miss it.

 

"I need this car  _safe and sound_  in Marseille?" Ange taps on the roof of the car, then looks back at Ben. "You think you can do that?"

 

"In Marseille?"

 

"Yeah. There's a GPS inside and everything, then you can take the train on your way back? I can't go, and--"

Ange glances at the bistrot, then adds, lower -as if anyone inside  _Les Souris Vertes_  could possibly hear them:

"Camille, Miguel, Piotr,  _euuuh_... They're well-meaning  _minots_ , but ---I don't trust them with a car, I just don't. You have a driver's license, right?""

 

Ben nods, "Ouais." 

 

"It's a four hour drive. You know, I'd understand, if it's any trouble to you--?"

 

"Non, non, ça va." 

 

"Sûr?"

 

"Yeah, it's fine," Ben shrugs. "I get paid either way, right?"

 

" _Bien sûr_ , Ben, who do you take me for? In fact--" 

Ange pulls on his vest, and looks for something in the inside pocket, pulling out an enveloppe to put it in Ben's hand. 

"Here--"

 

For some reason, Ben is embarrassed: "Oh non, Ange--"

 

"Please.  _Please_ ," his boss insists. "It's nothing. I see you working hard, struggling to make ends meet," ---he's not struggling; the pay and the rent are pretty decent---

"...consider this a small bonus. Just ---it's a nice car, Ben," Ange warns. " _Take care of it_." 

 

He looks back down at his phone: "I'll give Roch your number," 

 

"Who's Roch?" Ben asks, finally taking the enveloppe. 

 

"The guy you're driving the car to. An old friend. From Corse. Ever been to Corse?"

 

"Never." 

 

"I'll take you."

 

There's a moment of silence where Ange is typing on his phone, before he concludes: 

"...If you leave now, you'll avoid traffic. You know, people driving back home from work, and all that."

 

"Alright," Ben nods, while Ange pats him once on the shoulder. 

 

" _Merci, frère_ , I owe you." 

 

"Pas de problème."

 

He's already walking away, and Ben's opening the door, when Ange turns around one last time.

 

"Hé, Ben?"

 

Ben's head snaps up.  

"Ouais?"

 

"Don't open the trunk."

 

Silence. 

 

However short the pause, it's pregnant enough to make Ben go perfectly still.

Enough for him to essentially retrieve the survival instincts of a prey.

 

He supposes that, looking back, this must be it. 

 

This must be the moment when he finally thinks for the first time:  _am I exactly sure of what I'm getting myself into?_

 

"...alright?" 

Ange is waiting for a confirmation that the message has been received. 

 

Slowly, Ben nods once. 

 

"Just don't open it."

 

Ange takes a step closer, then says, to make it easier, maybe:  

"The lock is shady. ---even the best cars have their flaws." 

 

Only when he's finally sitting behind the wheel, does Ben look inside the enveloppe. 

 

His eyes widen. 

And as soon as he gets a sense of the amount, he hurries to close the enveloppe back. 

 

A thousand euros.

 

 _...a small bonus_. 

 

 

Watching Ange walk up to _Les Souris Vertes_ in the side view mirror, Ben is suddenly aware that a cannibal is sitting across the table. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I can see the flickers / Over me, the lanterns raised / Lift me up, lift me over it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eeyKU8wGCd4)
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> A few infos about the story:
> 
> 1.  
> If you're curious, here's [Grenoble, the city where this whole chapter takes place -where Ben lives](https://www.google.fr/maps/@45.1874373,5.7125142,3a,75y,9.39h,104.81t/data=!3m7!1e1!3m5!1sO3mwz9rWyGXoAc4YpMmerA!2e0!6s%2F%2Fgeo1.ggpht.com%2Fcbk%3Fpanoid%3DO3mwz9rWyGXoAc4YpMmerA%26output%3Dthumbnail%26cb_client%3Dmaps_sv.tactile.gps%26thumb%3D2%26w%3D203%26h%3D100%26yaw%3D89.90319%26pitch%3D0%26thumbfov%3D100!7i13312!8i6656) before he finds Rey's house. 
> 
> 2.  
>  _Ange_ is a unisex French first name that's very popular in Corsica (the little island in the meditteranean sea, next to Italy and that's still a part of France -where Ange says he'll take Ben one day). It literally means _Angel_. 
> 
> 3.  
> The name of the pub where Ben works, Les souris vertes, ( _The Green mice_ ) is a reference to the French children's song [A Green Mouse](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Une_souris_verte)
> 
> 4.  
> [ _Marseille_ , the city where I live and the city where Ben drives to](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Marseille), is the second largest city of France after Paris. It's located on the French south coast (the Meditteranean coast).  
> Geographically, it's mid-way between Grenoble (where Ben lives) and Corsica.


	18. The sea retreating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey babies =)
> 
> I intended to post this chapter yesterday night, and guess what
> 
> while I was editing it, THE POWER OF THE WHOLE BUILDING WENT OUT
> 
>  
> 
> _swell_
> 
>  
> 
> so I couldn't post it, but also, everything was dark and I don't own a smartphone, so I actually couldn't do anything except go to bed lol
> 
> what a life

 

Rey doesn't know how to feel. 

 

She knows that she's desperate for things to go back exactly the way they were. Something cooes at her to push her grudge deep down and live in a sweet sweet denial.

 

And she tries, but she can't let herself go. She doesn't know how that's possible, given how little she's cared about _everything_ for the past few years now. 

 

She wants things to be the way they were, but they also _can't_ be the way they were. 

 

She wants to trust that it'll be fine.

She's also short on trust. 

 

It makes for very interesting scenes during the three days following that first breakfast "after the storm". 

 

She willingly receives everything R-- _Ben_  gives her like it's her due -the meals, the attention, the care -while she,  _well_ , stares at him very intensely from time to time thinking hard and loud: _I haven't forgiven you._

 

_You're not off the hook._

 

She even snaps at him for no reason that one time.

 

He asks her if she wants more bread, and she tells him that,  _if she wants some bread, she can slice herself some._  

 

From the woman who threw a tantrum demanding that he makes her coffee, for no other reason than _because_. 

 

Obviously, he's a bit taken aback. 

 

But he shrugs it off easily. Overall, she's lucky.

 

He's a very patient man.

 

Mainly though, she feels the need to show in some small ways that for her, all isn't in the past yet. When he cooks, she doesn't annoyingly gravitate around him anymore. She stays on the couch, and watches him from there -like she used to, the first few days.

 

As a general rule, she does her best not to get too close to his body, period. 

 

If it affects him, he acts like it doesn't. 

 

She'd like to be more mad at him, by principle, because  _he deserves it-_ God knows he does.

 

He doesn't make it easy for her, though -just accepting whatever she throws at him, diligently cleaning after her, _letting her choose what they'll eat._

Going "chaton- _this"_ , "chaton- _that"_. 

 

His tenderness is insufferable. 

 

One thing that's the way it was before, is that she's back secretly wishing she could just _touch him_. Feel him.

Without preambule, and without consequences. 

 

She looks at him from across the table and tries to swallow it down.

 

The table he's...  _disciplined_  her on.

 

Eating lunch there has since been a very thought-provoking experience, to say the least.

 

Her heart races without warning in the middle of the meal, her cheeks suddenly hot, and she glances at him, wondering if it ever crosses his mind. 

 

Again, if it does, he hides it well. 

 

He goes out for a walk, and from the couch she looks at him through the French doors, his silhouette getting smaller and smaller.

 

The mere thought of having him disappear on her has her throat tightening. 

 

The third day after  _Ren_  became  _Ben_ , she wakes up in the middle of the night and for the first time in she doesn't know how long _she can't go back to sleep_.

 

She turns and turns in her bed, no position satisfying enough. 

 

Her half-conscious mind go  _there_ , letting her imagine without restraint and judgement what it would be like to hook her leg over  _somebody's_  hip. To be the big spoon of, say, a much, much larger body than hers. 

 

She sits up on her bed in the pitch-black dark, huffing.

 

She hopes she's not about to become an insomniac.

 

Sleeping has always been her special talent, she does it like no one else. 

 

The wind blows hard outside, making the house creak at times. Otherwise everything is silent.

 

If she's awake, she might as well go pee, she thinks. So she gets up, her hand on the wall guiding her along the hallway. 

 

Once she's in the living-room, though, her feet don't lead her to the bathroom. 

 

She quietly approaches the couch.

 

Listening closely to Ben's soft breathing -barely discerning his form in the dark. 

 

She doesn't intend to do anything other than keep listening, letting the slow rhythm of his breathing soothe her, waiting to see if she'll eventually pull herself out of that hypnotic momentum and finally  _move_  to go to the bathroom instead of dedicating herself to behave so consistently like a complete weirdo---

 

"...need anything?"

 

She  _jumps_.

 

 _"No!"_  She barks at the form on the couch despite herself, her heart hammering, before literally _running away_  to her bedroom. 

 

The next morning, he doesn't mention it. She's grateful for it. 

 

She sits down, the Moka pot hisses, the bread fries -Ben calls her  _chaton--_

-and before long her stomach is full. 

 

He puts everything away then, and does the dishes, like always. 

 

Later he's coming back from the cellar with another bottle of wine for lunch, when he finds her sitting at the table again.

 

Her hand quite literally digging into the jar of apricot jam. 

 

They've finished eating breakfast thirty minutes earlier. 

 

She mentally shrugs.

He can judge her in silence, if he so wishes, she gives no fuck. 

 

Not even looking up from the jar, her focus is entirely on getting her forefinger to scoop up as much as it can, as the jam is running low. 

 

She sucks on said finger, then on her thumb, her hand sticky.

 

Before finally looking up at him.

 

He's standing there, a blank expression on his face while she lets go of her thumb with a wet pop. 

 

His tone is cautious. 

"Need a spoon, maybe?"

  

Her fingers reach back inside.

 

_"...do I look like I need a spoon?"_

A good splash of jam lands on the table when she removes her hand from the jar.

 

"You look like you need God," he deadpans. 

 

She huffs a humorless sound, licking her fingers again. He leaves the kitchen.  

 

"Do you know what you want to eat for lunch?" He asks as he's about to enter the bathroom, but she doesn't have the time to retort anything clever as he stops in his track:

_"--what the fuck?"_

 

She looks up: "...what?"

 

He's at a loss for words and visibly confused, standing there in the bathroom doorway: "-- _Euuuh_ -"

 

"What??" She asks again, standing up -quickly sucking her fingers clean as she pads to him.  _"What is it?"_

 

He steps aside to let her see for herself. 

 

She passes him and enters the bathroom, her eyes looking left and right---

 

She feels his hand in the middle of her back push her further inside, before she turns just in time to see him close the door behind him, placing the wooden chair against it. 

"Wha--??"

 

"False alarm, nevermind" he says flatly, approaching her.  _"Arms up."_

 

The blue tiles, all around them on the walls and on the floor, soften the luminosity coming through the window at the top of the wall behind her. 

The room in itself is barely large enough for both the sink and the small bathtub. She can particularly appreciate just how narrow the room is now that they're both in it, and that his body seems to take half the space. 

 

"--w-what?" She stammers, her arms defensively up against her chest, looking down to see his hands reach for the hem of her dress.

His expression is perfectly collected -as if none of what's happening is out of the ordinary. 

 

"...arms up," he repeats, gathering her dress past her waist, his voice still flat. The reverberation in the room deepens it despite the fact that he speaks rather softly.

 

It also loudens the sounds of her breathing.

"--n-no-" 

 

He straightens up, not letting go of her dress but stopping his progression. "Why not?"

It sounds like a genuine question. 

 

She blinks.  _Why not?_

"I --I still --haven't forgiven you," is what she settles for. 

 

He doesn't flinch, his eyes on her waist. "I know," -he gently tugs at her dress, "I'll wash you, that's it."

 

A moment of silence pass before he does anything. Then, his hands pull the dress slightly further up under her armpits---

\--and she lifts her arms above her head.  

 

She's not wearing any bra, so her arms cover her chest again the second the dress is off.  

"--I can do it myself," she weakly points out, looking down at him as he bends to roll her panties down her legs. 

 

"I know you can, but you don't."

 

His tone is still soft, but she feels judged. Maybe she is. 

_"So?"_

 

"...so nothing, it's fine," he assures her, nudging her leg so she steps out of her panties, "--I'll do it." 

 

Her heart is beating  _hard_.

Her shoulders are up, and she swallows, her arms still defensively hiding her chest. 

 

"It's been three days," he observes, moving to turn the water on. The shower head is fixed on the wall so the water falls directly into the bathtub underneath.

He leaves his hand under the stream to check the temperature. 

 

Shame heats up her face, despite his gentleness. 

 

 _"I still wash my_ \---" she begins, cutting herself off: "--it's not  _dramatic_  if I don't take a shower for three days."

 

"No," he agrees, his eyes on his hand, "--it's not." 

 

Seconds pass to the sound of the water falling in the tub, and he doesn't look at her. 

 

Finally, his other hand lightly pushes her forward:

 

"...go ahead, chaton. It's warm."

 

Hesitant, she steps closer. Then climbs in.

 

She hears him climb in behind her, so she turns to face him, the hot water hitting the back of her head. 

 

He still has his shorts and his t-shirt on.

Seemingly determined to make it clear that it's  _her shower-time_  and not his.

 

The bathtub is just as small as everything in here.

And he's a giant, standing taller than the shower head on the wall. 

 

Her arms are still covering her chest, and she catches him glance down at it, before he reaches up for the curtain on the side of the bathtub: 

 

"Here," he says with the hint of a smile, pulling the curtain closed and secluding them both in an even smaller space. "...for privacy."

 

_"Very funny."_

 

She looks down at his bare feet. They seem even larger than they are, facing hers.

She curls her toes. 

 

She hears a squirting sound, then feels a cold gel get in contact with her scalp. From this close, he has a good view of the top of her head. 

 

He puts the shampoo bottle back down on the rim of the bathtub, against the wall.

 

His entire attention is on her, and she feels her shoulders slowly drop the moment his fingertips find their way in her hair. Patiently, he massages her scalp in tight circles, behind her ears, up her nape, right after her temples and around her forehead.

The scent of orange blossoms fills her nose.

 

She closes her eyes with a silent sigh, her head slightly tilting back. 

 

He's not very delicate, but it makes no difference. 

 

Although her arms stay where they are, her hands go slack against her collarbone. 

 

The shampoo lathers, some getting on her brow and cheek, and she feels the palm of his hand push the foam away from her face, smoothing her hair back. 

 

He tilts her head backward with a finger under her chin, getting her to step back under the stream. 

 

He then wrings, combs her hair under the water to rinse it properly. 

 

Once everything's off, she finally opens her eyes, blinking repeatedly. 

 

Droplets got on his t-shirt. 

 

A soap in his hands, he scrubs it good then leaves it in the small basket fixed on the wall on his left, before placing one hand at the back of her neck, the other stilling just as it's about to touch her face: 

 

"Shut your eyes."

 

She immediately does, and then reflexively scrunches up her nose, frowning under his hand as he soaps her face, his touch a bit rough, to the point.

 

When he rubs her ears, she turns her head to the side to splutter a bit of soap off her lips, her eyes still shut hard.

 

" --'had to clean your mouth," he says softly, sounding apologetic. 

 

She blinks under the soap, squinting her eyes to see a faint smirk on his lips, his focus on her neck as he explains: "...considering how filthy it can be."

 

"Shut up," she huffs. 

 

He tilts her head back again and rinses her face. 

 

She sniffles and sighs, watching as he  grabs the soap again -the speed of her heartbeats picking up in anticipation.

 

His eyes settle on her face, watching closely when his hands come up to first rest on her shoulders. She discreetly swallows, looking down when he starts to gently rub her back in broad circles, then her neck, her shoulders, pressing lightly at times -his movements slow, soothing. 

 

His hand slides along her arm, still folded against her with the other. 

 

He gives it a tug to get it away from her chest. 

 

Although her heart hammers all the more for a reason she can't quite explain, her quiet breaths short, she still lets him hold her wrist and unfold a first arm so he can wash it.

 

His hand briefly scrubs her armpit before he draws circles again on her skin, down her arm -all the way to her sticky fingers. 

 

She expects him to say something, or maybe she hopes he does. The quiet sound of the water in the room with his firm touch are as comforting as it's leaving her restless.

 

But he takes care of her other arm without a word, soaping his hands again when he's done. 

 

As expected as it was, she still holds her breath when his hands land on her neck -and caress their way from her collarbone down to her tits, her chest heaving when he gently squeezes.

 

She fists the hem of his t-shirt. 

 

Naturally, he takes his sweet time giving both his attention - fondling her as her breathing stutters, clearly enjoying the show of her blush, his thumb lingering over the soft flesh, teasing.

His own chest rises and falls a bit more frankly when he shamelessly drops his gaze on the handfuls he's getting.  

 

She can't say what it is about the context that makes her too shy to look up at him for more than a second. She still manages to choke out, barely high enough to be heard:

 

_"--you said you were just going to wash me-"_

 

"I am," he breathes, stepping closer, his feet on each sides of her own now, her mouth almost touching his shoulder. His hands slowly creep around her sides to slide down her back --before they finally find her ass, resuming their groping; "...don't get any ideas." 

 

He gently presses, pets her, drawing circles over the round flesh there -then adds, because he thinks he's so smart:

"I'm just being thorough."

 

She tries her best, meanwhile, to not outright pant and squirm against him, or cant her hips to push her ass in his hands -struggling to keep her eyes opened, squeezing her thighs shut over the throb between them.

 

"Some body parts need more care than others," he states, low, while generously coating her ass with soap, making her gasp a first time when he lazily drags the pads of his fingertips between her cheeks--

 

\--then a second time, although it sounds more like she chokes, when he  _pinches_  her, hard, right at the junction of her ass with her thigh, making her jump and stand on tip-toe as she plants her nails in his shoulders.

 

"--asshole," she mutters as he rubs the flesh there to soothe the pain; her breaths short, her teeth gritting -and her pussy as wet as can be.

 

He tries to keep from smiling too openly.

She doesn't have the time to pay too much attention to it, because she feels his right hand go back over her hip to her front--

 

-making her insides clench hard and her face grow hot when he drag the pads of his fingers along her folds, without much precision.

 

Teasing.

 

She huffs a weak whimper, resting her forehead against his shoulder, wetting his t-shirt even more.  

 

He lightly rubs her back and forth, without any real method and at a steady pace, as if he really _was_ washing her, his insistance on the same spot the only indication that it's actually not the point -rocking her slightly, and effectively making her cant her hips this time to get more friction. 

 

His other arm circles her waist, balancing her. 

 

"Tell me when you think it's clean," he says against her temple, keeping a steady pace. 

 

Her knee trembles and her breathing gets heavier quickly.

 

He doesn't accelerate the rhythm at any point, the progression enduring,  his strokes drawing it out -making the whole thing more overwhelming somehow.

 

Around them, the steam fills the air, along with her soft moans that she tries to keep down her throat and the sound of the water running.

 

Her climax is a wave she sees coming from very far away, growing steady, steady, _stea_ _dy_ \--until her hands fist his shirt and her thighs trap his fingers as she rides his hand, leaning on him, gasping sharply in his hold.  

 

He lets her come down -removing his hand when her thighs lets it go. 

 

"...all clean?" He asks, his tone tender.

 

She clears her throat, blinking. 

"Uh, yeah," she replies with a small voice. "It is."

 

He steps back and grabs the soap again, and she barely pays attention when he mumbles: "...excuse the boner."

 

She looks down at him with sleepy eyes when he crouches down, her hands on his shoulders as he rubs and squeezes her thigh, then her calf -then repeats the same with her other leg. 

 

She's completely rinsed half a minute later and out of the bathtub, shivering, her shoulders up and her chin in, waiting as he grabs a clean towel from the closet -before he wraps it tight around her, holding her against his chest. 

 

"There," he mumbles on the crown of her head. "Feel better?"

 

She hums, her mouth pressed against his shoulder, her eyes closed.  

 

She exhales deeply through her nose, and closes her eyes, her arms circling his waist, her mind blank. 

 

Simply happy to exist, she'd be glad if they had to stay like this forever. 

 

She doesn't react when she feels his lips press down on her wet hair, nor when he presses them at the top of her forehead--

 

\--she goes rigid, however, when he puts a small peck down on the side of her nose.

 

He picks up on it.

And stills. 

 

"I--I, I'm not--" she stammers dumbly, then, swallowing "-I don't--"

 

She doesn't know what she means to say, exactly, to stop a kiss when she let him get her off a minute before.

Maybe she's about to remind him that _she hasn't forgiven him_ , like she did before the shower, as a way to not completely be weak at his contact -and not let him believe everything's fine.

 

And maybe he apprehends that.

Because she doesn't get to finish her sentence. 

 

His hold around her loosens very slowly. 

 

Like the sea retreating. 

 

She blinks, feeling like she's waking up from a black-out, and watches as he wordlessly bends to pick her dress and her underwear up from the floor. His eyes avoiding hers.

 

"Stay here," she hears him say then as he passes her, his words barely intelligible. "...I'll get you some clothes."

 

Her throat tightens when she finds herself alone -and she doesn't know why. 

 

Overall, she's lucky. 

 

Ben's a very patient man. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Io sparo a te / Bang bang / Tu spari a me / Bang bang / E vincerà / Bang bang / Chi al cuore colpirà / Ho sentito un colpo al cuore / Quando mi hai detto che / Non vuoi stare più con me / Bang bang](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qEAu0DooDOc)


	19. The sun is going to die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \----------["My depression came back in full swing, Ladies and Gents, full freaking swing [...] \----------Just taking a shower --after my shower, I would literally look in the mirror and be like _yes bitch, like--good job! I would, like, give you a sticker._ You know? And --people that don't know what depression and anxiety is, are probably watching this like _oh my god, this is pathetic --she can't even take a shower._ But when you struggle with mental illness, that's what it's like. You have to... reward yourself and cry out of happiness, just for, like, cleaning the kitchen or making your bed, or cleaning your sheets. It's just simple tasks like that you physically cannot get yourself to do. [...] \-----------Living alone was very ---scary. Because I didn't have anybody but myself, and I had to rely on myself to do those things. [...] All I wanted to do was just ---be in bed, be on my phone."](https://youtu.be/KrzshA35fEM?t=609)

 

Rey stays very still. 

 

When Ben is back from the bedroom, he lays her panties on the rim of the sink, and hands her her dress.

 

"Here," he says softly -not looking at her.

 

He doesn't rush out of the bathroom, and he doesn't scowl either. When he goes out, though, right after handing her her clothes, without another word, a glance or a touch, she's not so detached from the world around her -from him, in fact- that she doesn't immediately feel something is wrong.

  

And when she comes out of the bathroom, barefoot on the tiles, her hair wet, with the reflexive intention to be around him for whatever he's about to do, she sees him come back from the kitchen.

 

As he passes her in direction to the French doors, he lets her know, with no trace of any kind of emotion in his voice:

 

"I'll be back for lunch."

 

She never accompanies him for his walk.

 

The first two months here, she's alone, and she has all kinds of reasons not to go out: t's too cold out, she might get lost, she has no one to chat with, and she'll get bored -although she knows very well she wouldn't want to see anyone if she could, and that she's not doing anything inside the house anymore than she would outside.

 

And this time, she'd like to go outside.

But it's implied that he doesn't want her with him. 

 

She swallows it down, and lets him go.

 

She stands there for several long minutes, unsure what to do with herself. The silence of the house is deafening.

 

It's alright, though, he'll be back for lunch.

She looks up at the clock above the fridge, biting the inside of her cheek.

Ten AM.

 

He'll be back here in two hours.

 

Defensively, she asks herself what he can possibly do outside for two whole hours -wincing when her own question forces her to acknowledge that he's not going anywhere but rather just getting away from her.

 

Two hours.

 

She looks up at the clock again.

 

If they're not eating leftovers for lunch, maybe he'll even be back sooner to cook? 

 

There are no vegetables on the counter, no pan out on the stove, no herbs. 

 

She hasn't dreamt it, though. He did tell her he'd be back for lunch. 

 

_What time is it?_

Same than a minute ago. 

 

She'll just do the dishes, she thinks, promptly trotting to the sink to give her hands something to do.

 

Finding herself back to square one when she sees there aren't any. 

 

He even dried and put everything away.

 

She tries but finds she can't lie down on the couch, because she can't relax enough, so she sits up and tries to stay there -because where would she go and what is there to do?

 

 _Not much than when he's here_ , a voice tells her. 

 

Yet, it most certainly doesn't feel the same. 

 

After some time, she eyes the red pocket edition on the kitchen table, the book Ben has been reading for several days, and she gets up.

She starts flipping the pages, stopping at times to read a few words.

She doesn't understand a single one. It still works as a distraction in the meantime, although she hasn't picked it up for that reason.

She'd like to find clues as to why he reads this book in particular among the few ones perched on the shelf above the couch -what he likes about it, what the story is about.

A way to get close to him now that she physically can't.

She looks at the French words just for the sake of it, and ends up spending wasting a lot of time reading some out loud with what must be the shittiest French accent ever.

 

She just holds it in her hands after some time. Check the few pages he folded the corners of. 

And time do pass. 

 

At eleven thirty, though, her stomach tightens. She stands by the sink and looks through the window. He's not by the tree, nor does she see him coming back from the small path at the end of the property. 

 

She checks again five minutes later. Same thing. 

 

It's not even noon, he's not supposed to be there already, she thinks.

 

Although he didn't say what hour he'd be back.  _Lunch_  is a pretty vague indication of when. 

 

At what hour do they usually eat? She wouldn't even be able to tell. 

 

\---and he wouldn't leave without his stuff, his bag, his clothes.

He wouldn't. 

 

 

He'd also have no reason to leave, would he? 

 

Aside from the fact that he's in charge of everything, the cooking, the cleaning -on top of having to endure her mood, her ungratefulness, her apathy? 

 

The knot in her stomach tightens, and she looks up at the clock. 

 

Time seems to be passing faster now that she's afraid she might find out he won't come back at noon, or at one -or at all. 

 

She sits at the kitchen table. 

 

Then gets up, and walks to the French doors, standing in the doorway, her eyes going over the whole property.

 

When she turns to see it's five to noon, she steps out. 

 

The grass under her feet is a bit dry at times -she's aware of it walking faster than necessary.

 

It's sunny. It always is, here. Nothing like London. 

 

Makes her want to know what Andalusia is like -sort of.

She wonders if Ben ever went. 

 

She looks around while walking, but she's not being thorough, confusely facing the fact that she  _can't_  be thorough -there's too much to cover. Still, she walks and looks around because now her legs and her mind are growing restless. 

 

She goes all the way to the end of the property, then stops at the path that follows the alley of cypresses. Her eyes go over what looks like abandoned fields, greenhouses, olive trees. Whatever she gets to see, there'll just be more behind the trees, behind the hills -the landing bending over and over.

  

The day he'll decide to leave, she'll have no way to find him.

 

She's walking fast back to the house.

 

Anxious. 

 

She doesn't know what her next move will be, if the house is still empty, how many back and forth she'll do before giving up. 

How tenacious, or rather delusional she can be. 

 

She's walking fast, but when she's close enough to hear the sound of plates coming from inside, she  _runs_  to the French doors. 

 

No idea why she would: she should slow down instead, relax, sigh with relief. 

 

But it seems that she needs to have him in sight for that. 

 

He's his back to her, facing the counter, when she steps inside. There's a moment where her lungs fill up with air, and the next, she's at his side. 

 

Pointedly looking up at him. 

 

He doesn't look back. His eyes on a can he's opening.

 

When he doesn't acknowledge her for another handful of seconds, she finally speaks: 

 

"You're here."

 

She's agitated, and she feels there are grounds for her agitation, there are, but---she just can't formulate anything coherent. 

 

Fortunately, she doesn't need to say more. There's no agression in his voice. He just states a fact: 

"I told you I'd be back for lunch."

 

He's right -he's being reasonable, and she isn't -yet the experience was too challenging for her tone not to be a bit accusatory: 

 

"I went looking for you."

 

Whatever reaction she hoped to get, this isn't it: 

"I know."

 

She narrows her eyes despite herself.

"...what?"

 

"I was in the lime-tree. I saw you."

 

"...in the lime-tree?"

 

"Yes. I climbed it."

 

She purses her lips, frowning.

Annoyed with herself that she didn't think of it, hurt that she didn't know that was a hobby of his,  _climbing trees_  -but mostly, angry that he let her pass without stopping her:

"You didn't say anything?"

 

"No."

 

Her jaw clenches -but before she gets to ask why, he expands on that:

"Part of me was --curious to see if you'd get out. If my absence would make a difference at all to you."

 

She can't help her sharp, bitter tone:

"You have a habit of scaring the shit out of people for fun."

 

Hoping they'll both be thinking about the time he pretended to faint in the middle of the field. 

 

He barely speaks high enough for her to hear him, his eyes on the bread he's slicing: 

 

"I have a habit of believing no one cares what happens to me."

 

A moment of silence passes where she'd like not to be as touched as she is by what he said, and what he's possibly implied. 

 

Eventually, she mumbles: 

"That's---so..." She swallows, looking for the right word: "... _immature_."

 

"What, hiding in a tree?"

 

"Letting me worry, instead of showing yourself."

 

"It is," he agrees.

 

She shifts on her feet. "Just because you're aware of it doesn't make it okay."

 

"I know."

 

She thinks he's going to leave her with that, after a moment -he doesn't. 

 

"I understand that because I've... essentially assumed the position of a parent for you, sort of, these past few days," - he hesitates, still not looking at her, "---that I might have led you to believe I was mature."

 

She swallows, eyes on the plate he's fixing for her. She doesn't like having words put on the situation. 

 _Her_  situation. 

 

"At least more than the average person," he goes on. "But you're likely more mature than I am ---even if you need to act like you're five sometimes."

 

She stiffens.

 

He opens the cupboard where the rubbish is, and throws away the can, concluding:

"...you're just ill."

 

She falls silent for good, standing by the sink, watching him as finishes his quick preparation. To get to the sink, he approaches her and say  _sorry_  to get her to move. 

 

Instead of mindlessly, playfully pushing her out of the way like he always does. 

 

This shouldn't hurt. But she notices, and it does hurt. 

 

She doesn't say anything and just steps aside.

 

"How old are you?" He asks her then, about to open the new bottle of Rouge, and she stills again -murmuring:

 

"Twenty eight."

 

He slowly nods, as if to himself -the way he would if mildly surprised by the reality in comparison to what he's imagined. 

"I'm thirty one," he informs her quietly. "We're just three years apart."

 

He's simply pointing it out, yet she can't help but hear it as an accusation for her behavior. For her inability to function.

 

She thought he liked taking care of her. 

She represses a wince. 

 

"But you're much bigger," she breathes, half to deflect, half seriously. "That counts."

 

She can see his expression soften. It's not a smile nor a laugh but it's something. 

 

"...didn't you eat a bunch of foetuses in the womb?" She jokes, resenting the direction the conversation took. 

 

"... _a bunch of foetuses_ -"

 

"Yes."

 

"You're not even limiting it to one sibling?"

 

He's not laughing, still she already feels better. The silences between the words aren't as heavy.  

"Haven't you though?" She insists. 

 

"Not that i know of."

 

She stays quiet for a moment, watching as he finally places the plates on the table. 

 _"...out_  of the womb, then?"

 

He does look at her then. She wouldn't have suspected she wanted him to look at her that much until that moment. 

"For someone who thinks about death most of the time, you sure are a funny lady."

 

Again, no smile, but the amusement in his voice is there, and she'll take what she can get. 

 

He sits down. She needs a second to realize she was expectant of something. 

 

\--then a few more seconds to realize of what exactly she was expecting. 

 

That he'd say _here, chaton,_ or _bon appétit  --_ something. But he just sits and start eating. 

 

 _She tries not to act like a five year-old_ , and swallows it down, sitting across him.  

 

"Who lives their life not thinking about death constantly?" She comments again. "Is that even a thing?"

 

"Most people don't."

 

Thirty-one. This man is thirty-one. She doesn't know what it is about this detail that makes him more ---endearing to her. She suspects that she's just after any kind of information about him.  

 

There's a reason why she won't ask just  _any_  question though.

"Don't you? --think about death?"

 

"No."

 

She sees his hand tighten around his knife, his jaw work, before he mutters:

"--not if I'm not in imminent danger."

 

They eat in silence for a moment, but she eventually puts her fork down, hoping maybe that a conversation, however small, whatever the subject, will ease the tensions. 

"The other kids---" -she clears her throat, "at recess, back in elementary school, kept talking about what was the most scary to them."

 

He frowns, looks up at her, chewing.  

 

"Because we'd just learn the word  _phobia_. So." She shrugs, then narrows her eyes: "And they'd say they were afraid of...  _spiders, sharks_..." 

She sits back:

" _When are you ever going to face a shark, Debbie?_ "

 

"Oh, God," he imits her dryly. "Debbie and her fucking sharks."

 

She's unperturbed, focused on her recollection.

 

"Debbie, you're going to  _die._  Your whole  _family_  is going to die, and the sun is going to die.  _None of what you do is ever going to matter_." 

 

Then, lower:

"You can live your life one way, or any other way -and it'll change nothing in the end."

 

"...Please."

 

She looks up from her plate, unsure what the word means here, bracing herself for whatever opinion he has on her eight year-old self, feeling ridiculous and attacked ---all of this on one word and in the span of three seconds at most: 

"...what?"

 

His eyes are on his plate. 

"-- _please_ , tell me you actually said that to her."

 

She feels herself starting to smile, but she's not sure he's got the time to catch it -or if he even cares:

"Can't remember if I did."

 

"How old were you?"

 

"Eight, I think."

 

He nods slowly.

"...just a fun, light-hearted kid."

 

Lunch goes by too fast, and when she's usually one to finish her second plate before he finishes his first one, it's not the case this time. As the silence stretches, it's increasingly more difficult to eat. 

 

He gets up, taking his plate and hers, and before she can think, hoping it'll be soothing for both of them, she shyly compliments him on the meal: 

"Thank you... it was good."

 

Something she's rarely done when the food didn't come from  _cans_. 

 

She realizes it too late, and winces when she sees his shoulders tense, before he mutters a very quiet  _sure_  at her.

 

Promptly, she comes to stand at his side when he lowers the plates into the sink, stammering, trying to gently push him aside: 

"I--I'll, I'll do the dishes."

 

But he doesn't move. 

"No."

 

She doesn't measure how serious he is, her eyes on the sink, and insists: 

"I can do them for once--"

 

His tone is sharper than she could have expected, his voice low -and he looks straight at her: 

 

_"If I don't have this, I'm not sure why you'd keep me around."_

 

Without waiting another second, he turns the water on.

 

She steps back.

 

Her throat is too tight to allow her to say anything -so she just leaves the kitchen. 

 

He leaves the house again some time after. 

 

She can't bring herself to reiterate her foolish search, while still feeling anxious just like she did that same morning. She tells herself that she'll have the opportunity to make things right when he'll be back. 

 

And he does come back. 

 

Late. Rather: much later than she expected him to. 

 

Around eight, the night is starting to fall, and lying down, from the couch, not moving at all, she sees his dark silhouette in the doorway of the French doors. The whole house is almost completely dark.

 

He walks in, careful, turns on the light in the kitchen--

 

And starts preparing dinner.

 

She swallows hard. 

After a moment, she gets up and walks to him -not getting as close as she's used to. He keeps his attention on what he's doing. 

 

Strategically, and timidly, she goes to stand in front of the sink. 

 

He doesn't need to access it right away, but he needs it eventually, and when he does, crushing her hopes that he would just push her aside with the back of his hand this time, he simply says again:  _sorry._

 

And when she doesn't leave the spot, he's more direct, although his tone remains in check: 

"...can you move, Rey?"

 

He's not silent -he'll talk to her if she asks something, and he talks to her while he's busy making dinner; the way he moves, his tone, don't look and sound like he's even mad at her.

It makes the situation more impossible to solve for her. Anger she recognizes and knows how to deal with. 

He's not mad.

He's sad. 

 

"I'll eat outside. The weather's warm," he tells her, grabbing his plate.

Then heading to the French doors. 

 

Not a cold statement. 

Not quite an invitation either.

 

She stands there, looking down at the steamy plate he left for her on the kitchen table. 

Unable to move and follow him, trying to take a deep breath, her mouth downturned. 

 

She doesn't have to think too hard about where she'll eat: she's got no appetite. 

 

So she goes to her bedroom instead. 

 

She spends the next hour on her bed, lying on her side, trying to come up with a solution to a problem she can't quite understand -terrified at the idea that he might just not want to be around her at all at the moment. All he did all day was stay away from her. 

He could walk away for good. 

Her heart hammers against her ribs with dread when she imagines him leaving at night. 

 

Time flies really fast. She hears his feet thumping through the house. Then the faint sound of the water running, plates being washed. The water runs again from the bathroom minutes later. 

 

And her heart beats faster. 

When she hears get out of the bathroom, she's on her feet, looking around. Her eyes stop on the bed. 

He's made it this morning, probably after breakfast -nothing is out of place. 

 

She hurriedly pulls on the comforter, then on the sheets, rolling them into a mess, undoing the bed completely. 

 

She feels ridiculous, but ridicule is better than feeling dejected and alone. 

 

She stands in the doorway of her bedroom. 

The light of the living-room is still on. 

 

Padding to the corner of the wall, she stops there, half hidden. He's standing by the couch, his back to her. Closely examining the burn on his hand. 

 

"Ben?"

 

She sees his arm contract. He doesn't turn around. 

"Yes?"

 

Her voice is even smaller then. 

"Can you help me ---make the bed?"

 

There's a short silence. 

 

"Yes."

 

She waits there for him to move. He does, after a moment. 

 

Turning just as he walks to her, she feels adrenaline course her body and her stomach form a knot just from hearing him following her. 

 

A glance at him has her catching him stopping in his track at the sight of the bed, sheets everywhere but where he left them, and she feels her cheeks burn but tries to act like nothing's wrong -placing herself on the far side of the bed. 

 

He goes to stand on the other side -and gently grabs the sheet without a word. 

 

He's efficient. Making a bed isn't that laborious of a task.

 

She tries to slow him down, while trying to think of something to do or to say before they're done. It's over too quickly.

 

Bent in half while tucking the comforter at the end of the bed, then absently smoothing it with a swipe of his hand, he stands back up.

"All good?"

 

He doesn't wait for an answer, turns and goes for the door.

 

Although she's still without a plan, she stops him before he opens it. 

"...Ben?"

 

He turns around too promptly -making clear that he expected her to speak again: 

" _What_ , Rey?"

 

He hasn't raised his voice, but his tone is too sharp not to silence her.

 

She'd like to ask him if he wants to sleep in the bed with her.

But she barely has the air necessary to speak. Paralyzed at the idea of a rejection.

 

She  _knows_  she wouldn't be able to take it.

 

So she just stand there, wringing her hands. 

 

"...need me to tuck you in, too?" He asks, avoiding her eyes, his voice toneless. 

 

The shake of her head is barely perceptible, but he's not looking at her anyway.

 

"Goodnight."

 

She swallows, watching him get out.

 

It feels exactly like a rejection would.

 

She hears the couch creak on the other side of the wall right after he exits the room, and just like that, the shittiest day she's had in a long time comes to an end. 

 

He's been out of the room for maybe ten minutes before she lies down on the comforter, her chest tight. 

 

She already knows there's not a chance in hell she'll sleep at all. 

 

In the dark, she tries to get the air stuck in her lungs out, but no matter how many times she forcefully sighs, her throat closes, and her ribs close, and she just curls a bit more on herself. 

 

She swallows hard, again and again. When her eyes start burning, though, she clenches her jaw tight. 

 

Anger, finally, gives her the fuel pain alone couldn't. 

 

She gets up, then pulls hard on the comforter to untuck it, her eyes a bit wet and her teeth still clenched. 

 

The comforter on her shoulders, she pads out of the room. 

 

In the hallway, she's hesitant because of the dark, but she moves with purpose nonetheless.  

 

Unless he fell asleep already, she can imagine he hears her perfectly. The silence is complete in the room aside from the sound of the comforter dragging on the floor. 

Her steps slow down as she approaches the couch.

 

The obscurity makes him whisper:

"--wha--?"

 

She reaches with her hand, very slowly -and finds his neck, her fingertips brushing the end of his hair. 

 

"Rey?"

 

Bracing herself on his shoulder, she puts her foot next to his hip and straddles him, her other hand keeping the comforter on her back in place, her legs folding on each side of him. 

 

Then, she lowers herself on him, covering him completely, lying down on her front flushed against his chest. 

 

She feels him shudder under her. 

 

He doesn't push her away. 

 

He doesn't tell her to leave. 

 

Feeling him against her, being able to smell him, nuzzling the crook of his neck, she can finally breathe, her heart lighter than it's been in days.

 

His voice thrums through her:

"It's ---not... comfortable, if--"

 

_"I don't care."_

 

She presses her legs tighter around him and lets herself weigh on him good to make a point.

 

Tentatively, she presses her lips on the side of his neck, sighing though her nose at the contact -feeling him turn his head toward her, hearing him swallow---

 

-before his hands slide around her. 

 

Holding her tight and close to him. 

 

She hums, gripping his shoulders, her back arching. 

 

Very hesitantly, she slightly lifts her head up, her fingertips grazing his jaw.

Then presses a slow, full kiss at the corner of his mouth, her hand coming up to the side of his face.

 

She feels him pressing back -then shifting, readjusting.

 

Giving her another small peck in return.

 

"Ben?" she breathes in his neck, letting her head down. 

 

"Yes?"

 

She closes her eyes. 

 

"I know that-- I said I liked you better when you didn't talk."

 

He remains silent, his hands gripping her the only indication he's listening. 

 

 

It's just a mumur, but he can hear her clearly in the silence of the house.

 

"...that's not true."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  [Every part of you is pulling me, so, don't pull away / Don't pull away / I don't want to change today / Cause, nothing stays anyway / I don't want to change today / Cause, that'll just decay / I'll give you more, I'll give you more / Give me more, give me more](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=62VmotZgkEY)


	20. Frère

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you've noticed, I need more time to update when the chapters are this long ^^  
> The first ones: 1500/2000 words.  
> The last two I wrote: over 4000 words each T.T
> 
> Which is why I needed three days to update instead of two. 
> 
> Also, there should be nine chapters total left.
> 
> Enjoy =)

Everything echoes in an underground parking lot. 

 

Ben can't exactly make out what the two kids say -yet, somehow, their voices sound so close to his ear. 

 

It's true that he's not that far away from them. Still. 

 

He's wearing white socks that he just knows he's ruining walking with them on that floor. 

 

His attention to that particular detail might be more telling than his pounding heart about his current state. His mind does everything it can to evade a situation he physically can't. 

 

Nothing has happened. But it's not about what's happened or not. It's about what could happen. It's about what happened last time. 

 

It's about the fact that he's not made for this.

Not him, not Karim. 

 

Yet here they are, the both of them. 

 

Karim is his back to the Audi, staring down at the kid in front of him, not leaving his eyes. 

 

The younger man, though, is the one who's standing slightly too close to him.

 

Just enough so that Ben silently slides from behind the pillar. 

 

None of the two  _minots_  pay attention to anything else but Karim. Ben's very quiet, coming from behind, and Karim doesn't betray his presence, sure -but also, the dozen of young men they've been dealing with for the past three months are in way over their heads. It shows at how cocky they act and sound -they have no clue what they're doing. _They're part of the family_ , whatever that means to them. 

 

Every time  _he's_  told that, that he's part of the family, Ben winces. He's not even good at hiding it. 

 

Very slowly, he pads toward them, counting on that misplaced overconfidence they have to keep them distracted until he's right behind them. 

 

As he approaches them, Ben can hear them more clearly. He doesn't register a single word, though. Too on edge to really focus on anything they're saying. 

 

Their eyes don't leave Karim at any point. 

 

Ben's sure that they must have been told they'd be two from Grenoble to assure the transaction. They're definitely not taking this as seriously as they should, even if they're very eager to prove to whoever praise them for it that they can play hard. 

 

They're eighteen at most, and they think they're Pacino. Maybe younger. They're still as tall as him and Karim. 

 

Finally, the muzzle of Ben's  _eleven/forty-three_  gently nudges the nape of the kid with the blue sweatshirt. 

 

It's two in the morning. There still could be a car driving by -luckily though, none of them has any interest in attracting a passerby's attention.

 

The kid doesn't scream, or even flinch -he just stills, which brings Ben to wonder exactly what kind of life he must have that he instantly recognizes the contact of a gun pushed against the back of his head like it happens to him every other day. The other kid with the white denim jacket doesn't show any reaction either aside from his eyes that slightly widen. 

 

Karim quietly exhales.

 

"Step back,  _chef_. Slowly."

 

Ben's voice is toneless. To hiw own ears, it sounds like it comes from someone else. He sounds in control. 

"Karim get in the car."

 

His  _partner_  cautiously gets in without a word. Ben is already circling the hood to get to the passenger's side, the eleven/forty-three still pointed at the two young men. 

 

They're not armed. 

 

Not like the four kids of last time. 

 

"Yuri is going to fucking murder you,  _frère,_ " one of them kindly informs Ben. "You're fucked."

 

Ben opens the car door. He chooses to play dumb.  _"Who's Yuri?"_

 

The kid swallows, jaw clenched. 

But ultimately, nothing more happens -they stand there, and watch him and Karim start the car, then drive away in the parking, tires screeching on the floor as they take a turn.

 

The two kids in the side view mirror disappear.

 

When they finally have the  _Vieux Port_  in sight, the lights' reflections dancing on the water, men in shorts and woman in summer dresses, even at this hour, Ben types in the GPS the adress of their hotel on the _Canebière_. 

"I'll check us out. You stay in the car?"

 

Karim slowly nods. He doesn't look back at him. 

 

Karim doesn't like guns. He doesn't like holding a gun. 

 

He's scared he'll kill someone on accident if he does, and he can't bring himself to even imagine holding someone at gunpoint.

 

Ben doesn't know that there's another man on earth that's as harmless as Karim is. 

 

He can only hope he'll remain a close second. 

 

That's why he doesn't want to know what it is exactly that they're participating in. He brings all kinds of bags to Marseille, without ever knowing what's in them.

 

He thinks Karim knows, though. He's carefully not to mention it. 

 

Since Karim told him he's too afraid to kill someone if a gun is in his hand, Ben has had a few nightmares during which he pulled the trigger without meaning too.

 

When he was little, Han always used to say he was a very impressionable boy.

 

If Han saw him today...

 

The  _minots_  from the north of Marseille always demand to meet some place  _underground_.

 

In the parking lots of the hotels Ben and Karim are staying at, or in the dark cellars under the projects those people live in most of the time.

 

Ben has complained to Ange about this, but Ange doesn't want to hear it.  

 

Ben insists that they are very often  _cameras_  in the parking lots. If something happens, they're fucked in some many ways. 

 

It makes them so much more vulnerable too. If they're parked near the beach, they can leave the next second without too much problem.

 

But leaving in panic from an underground parking lot? 

 

 _They shouldn't have to leave in panic_ , Ange always retorts. 

 

The kids from Marseille are not a  _serious threat_  according to him -whatever that means. Ben doesn't know much at all about who they are, who they work for, what connection exactly they have with Ange and whoever Ange works for, and he certainly doesn't want to know more than he does.

 

He doesn't know much about anything that's going on, but it tends to be more and more as months go by. 

 

Every day he feels the walls closing in on him. 

 

At night, he thinks about what his life has become over the course of the past few months, and he can't help but think over and over and over:  _this is it -I'm trapped._

 

_I'm trapped._

 

Camille, Piotr and the others count on him more and more, to drive them here and there, to second them during whatever meetings they need to have in the clubs Ange officially and unofficially owns.

 

Ben is tall, big; his long hair and strange face are unsettling to a lot of people they meet, especially if he stays back and stares and doesn't talk at all. 

 

They've all been talking to him and about him like he's part of the  _family_. 

 

Every time Ben does or sees something that he's only witnessed in movies before his life at  _Les Souris Vertes_  is a surreal experience. It feels like floating right above his own body, like he doesn't understand up and down anymore, like he's in the Truman show. Nothing feels real. Big questions he's never bothered asking himself before don't let him sleep at night.

 

 _What am I doing with my life? Is this it?_  

 

He starts thinking about his age as more than just a number. His life becomes particularly stressful -whether it's because of some detail that personally leaves him on edge or an objectively disturbing event. And his instincts, instead of kicking in in a way that would allow him to give the appropriate response and do what needs to be done, shut his brain down entirely. 

 

He turns numb, from head to toe, and watches everything unfold from behind a glass. 

 

And he's numb for two whole days after what happens  _that night_. A week before Ange decides to give Ben the eleven/forty-three. 

 

He shuts down so hard that he can't even remember what happened -or how it happened exactly. The boys they met were armed, and had snorted they fair share of cocaine, or whatever it is kids take to party nowadays. 

 

When Ben and Karim come back, Ben isn't able to remember anything that happened five hours earlier, or even the drive back to Grenoble. 

 

He just vaguely remembers how Karim mumbled prayers to Allah for three hours straight in the silence of the car. 

 

And he remembers thinking:  _I'm dying today._

 

The gun lands in his hand six days later.

 

It's an american semi-automatic pistol, Ange tells him, one he'll take the hang of easily enough. Camille is the one who shows him how to use it. 

 

It's loaded.

 

Again, Ben recognizes it from movies. As a kid, he had a toy that resembled it a lot too.

 

It's heavy, much heavier than the toy. 

 

The weight in his hand doesn't feel real.

 

Once more, he drifts off from his own body. He reaches out, but can't feel reality anymore, can't grasp it just quite. 

 

Ben wishes he could say Ange sends them with so little protection because his life and Karim's life aren't that valuable to him. 

 

As months go by, he becomes aware that that's not quite right. 

 

Ange sends them with no real protection because whatever they bring down to Marseille isn't  _that_  valuable to bother for their safety more than he already does, which isn't a lot by any standards. 

 

"No ---Ange... I don't know how to use it", he hears himself mutter the second the eleven/forty-three is in his hand. 

 

"Don't use it,  _idiot_ , show it, that's all," retorts Ange with what's supposed to be a reassuring tone. He turns his head to the side, toward the stairs. " _Camille!_ " 

 

Looking back at Ben, he must be able to see on his face how unsure he is.

 

"Keep it at your waist, safety on. Move it around when they need to calm down."

 

Ben's jaw clenches.  

 

"What if they're armed and point their own gun at me?" He asks finally.

 

"They'll likely be armed. But they're not supposed to try anything, this is just  _in case_."

 

Ben's mind goes blank again at the vague mention of what happened a week earlier. Camille is coming down. 

 

"They need us, Benji," Ange claims again. "Don't worry. --Camille show him how the  _eleven_  works."

 

Ange always mentions what's in the Audi's trunk without  _really_  talking about it.

 

Ben only sees bags. He tries not to even pay attention to the shape they have. How heavy they are.

 

It's one way to pretend like he's not knee-deep in it.

 

On their way back from Marseille this time, Karim is as silent as a tomb. The night is dark, and not many cars are circulating on the A7, the highway to Grenoble. 

 

They arrived in Marseille two hours ago maybe. They were supposed to spend the night.

 

Here they are, though. 

 

On their way back to Grenoble, at three in the morning. 

 

He suspects Karim doesn't want to talk about tonight, not anymore than he seemed to talk about it the last time they drove back to Grenoble in the middle of the night. 

 

They aren't that many occasions for them to talk together, about their work, or about anything else. They shoots each others looks that are worth a thousand words -but ultimately, nothing has been said out in the open. 

 

Maybe Karim senses Ben isn't too present in his own life anymore. 

 

They can ignore the situation a little bit longer -can't they?

 

Karim, it seems, has decided that they've ignored it long enough. 

 

"I haven't slept in six months," is how he breaks the silence. 

 

Ben's hands clench on the wheel. He doesn't say anything, and neither does Karim for a whole minute, until he elaborates: 

 

"Either you're made for this, or you're not. And I'm not."  

 

The admission is a cold shower for Ben. Not that he's in any way surprised by Karim's words, since he feels the same way. He just knows in that exact moment, that he was actually actively avoiding talking about it with Karim in the fear of having to do something about it.

 

He doesn't know if he'll have it in him to do something about it.  

 

If Karim admits there's a problem and decides to do something about it, Ben is going to have to make a decision. 

 

"Ben."

 

He realizes he hasn't talked at all yet, hasn't even given a sign that he's been listening. He glances at Karim on his right. He can't quite make out his expression in the obscurity of the car. 

 

"What?"

 

He glances at him again. Karim's eyes don't leave him as he swallows thickly. After a silence a bit too long, Ben hears him utter: 

 

"We're not good people."

 

He states that like it's a fact.

 

There's no invitation to discuss it. 

 

Ben's throat tightens. His eyes don't leave the road. 

 

" _Frère_."

 

Ben looks straight ahead. " _What_ , Karim?"

 

"I don't want to bring more Kalash in Marseille."

 

Ben closes his eyes briefly. It's the second time in less than a minute that Karim drops a bomb on him. "How do you know that's what we have with us?"

 

"Not today, maybe, but I heard Piotr talk about the delivery of  _several AK-47 in Noailles_ , and that's where we were headed the next day."

He expects Ben to say something, certainly. The silence stretches. 

 

"I'm telling you because you're my friend, Benjamin. I'm leaving Grenoble."

 

Just like that, it's harder to breathe. 

 

If he doesn't have Karim, Ben doesn't have anyone. 

 

"I'm going to Morocco. My brother lives there."

 

They don't say another word to each other the rest of the drive.

 

Ange isn't happy the next day. At all. 

 

But he doesn't say anything because the night where everything went to shit is still fresh in everybody's minds.

 

And because he needs them to go back to Marseille as soon as the next week. 

 

For the whole week, Karim acts like everything's the same. For a moment there, he has Ben fooled, getting him to almost believe Karim has changed his mind. 

Obviously, that's wishful thinking.

 

The Audi has been in the sun for the past three hours when Ben opens the door, the day they're supposed to leave for Marseille. He leaves it open while waiting for Ange to arrive. 

 

When Ange's here, the first thing he asks before saying anything else is: 

 

_"Where's Karim?"_

 

Ben tenses. 

 

Camille shrugs. "Don't know, can't reach him." 

 

Ange winces.

"You can't  _reach_  him?" 

 

"Yeah, I mean, he doesn't pick up. And I can't find him."

 

Ben pretends like he's not listening. Maybe not the right move. 

 

"Ben, you call him. Maybe he'll get the call if it comes from you."

 

Without a protest, Ben takes his phone out and scrolls down to Karim's number.

 

He knows Karim is smarter than that. Still his heart is pounding. 

 

 _Don't pick up, don't-pick-up-don't-pick-up-_   _don'tpickupdon'tpickupdon'tpickup---_

 

The night before, Karim came to knock on his  _chambre de bonne's_  door after his shift down at the bar.

 

"Sorry,  _mec_ , I was sleeping," Ben tells him when opening the door. 

 

Because he's not fully awake yet, Ben doesn't find strange that Karim would come to his room unannounced, at this hour. 

Karim lets the reason of his visit be known the second the door is closed.

"I came to say goodbye."

 

Ben's throat closes.

 

Karim sits on Ben's single bed, looking up at him, expectant, and Ben avoids his eyes.

 

Eventually though, he sits next to him. 

 

"You don't have the intention of going tomorrow, do you?"

 

Ben huffs, his words near a whisper:  _"What do you want me to do?"_

 

Never the kind face of Karim has looked more pained than in this moment.

 

"I can't make the decision for you," he murmurs, looking down, before his eyes find Ben's again. "I will pray Allah. So that he watches over you."

 

Ben distantly wishes Karim wouldn't add solemnity to a situation that doesn't need any. 

 

His eyes and his chest burn. 

 

Karim's expression is the most tender there is -his tone assured.

 

"I can't continue living my life in sin. But I'll be praying for you," he repeats. "--- _I love you_."

 

Before Ben can anticipate anything, feeling too much in this moment after months spent feeling not enough, Karim's hands come up to cup his face.

Ben tries to look at him, but his vision gets blurry.

 

"You're a good man, Benjamin."

 

Ben lets it happen when Karim leans in.

 

His lips press against his. 

  

When Karim stands up, Ben's eyes don't leave the ground. 

 

" _Take care_ ," is what he hears him say before the door closes on him. 

 

 

"-----he's not answering," Ben tells Ange, hanging up. 

 

His boss sighs heavily.

"Feel like going alone?" He asks him, although he and Ben know no one's  left any choice, here. "I'm fucked if you don't go."

 

Ben nods.  

 

" _Dieu merci_  I can count on you Ben," Ange tells him, before adding lower: "I'm surrounded by fucking idiots."

 

Ben glances at Camille, who's standing five feet from them. Camille turns his head in the opposite direction, careful not to react. 

 

"You got some stuff with you? Remember you sleep there, because I don't know when Roch will be able to join you ---then tomorrow you'll meet with the rascals."

 

Ben winces. "The  _rascals_?"

 

" _Ouais_ , they're young, I call them the rascals, they're little rascals." 

 

Ange runs his hand over Ben's shoulder, turning to Camille: "He's beautiful in his suit, isn't he?"

 

Camille smirks, and Ange gives Ben more of his condescending tone: "...meeting anyone in Marseille?"

 

Ben's wondering if he's aware of the irony of what he just said.

"I am, actually."

 

"Right."

 

\---ten minutes later, he's out of Grenoble. 

 

During the day, for some reason, Ange wants him to avoid the highway. Strategically, he assumes.

Naturally, the drive takes more time ---which means it's more time for him to think. 

He's alone, alone for good, now, and although Karim's departure has turned him into a mess the night before, he still feels too paralyzed and numb to properly consider what his options. 

Is it as simple as that? 

Leaving?

_Karim has left the fucking country._

 

What does that say about the kind of retaliation they risk?

 

In that moment, he prefers to do what he's done best for the past few months, and shuts his brain down completely, going on autopilot for the rest of the road.  

 

He's forced to take the reign of his body back just when he's about to pass a godforsaken place called Saint-Julien-en-Beauchêne. 

 

Two policemen are standing on the side of the road with their car parked next to them. From afar, one of them wave at Ben to park right behind. 

 

Random police control. 

Ben's heart drops. 

 

Here. In the middle of nowhere. No one drives by around here. In the middle of the afternoon, too?  _In the middle of the week??_

...is that police control  _that_  fucking random? 

 

His blood is pumping in his ears as Ben briefly considers stepping on the accelerator. 

His knees are weak. 

His fists clench on the wheel --before he turns, slowing down when he's at the two policemen's level. 

 

He's really trying to calm down parking a few meters away from the police car --trying to convince himself it's still possible that it's just a routine control. 

 

When he sees in the rear view mirror one of the two officers slowly walks to his car, though, all his brain is able to scream at him is that this is it. 

 

This is how it all ends.

 

He doesn't even know what's in the fucking trunk. Chances are he's about to find out --with a police officer right by his side. 

 

Ben Solo. 

The fucking idiot. 

 

He can't imagine what his face must look like when the policeman knocks on the window of the Audi, gesturing to open it. 

 

The man can no doubt guess right then that something's wrong, if only with how Ben's hand trembles -yet when the window's down, the police officer just says: 

"Bonjour Monsieur. Could you turn the engine off, and remove the key. Routine control."

 

Ben tries to speak evenly. "Bonjour."

 

"ID, and driver's license please."

 

He doesn't have the time to open the glove compartment that Ben hears the other one shout from the policecar:

" _Berger!_ "

 

Ben's eyes shoot up to the rear view mirror. Just in time to see the same man point at something at the back of the Audi to his colleague -the plate, it looks like, but Ben can't be sure. 

 

"One moment, please," the policeman tells him, before walking back to check what his partner brought his attention to.

 

Is this a stolen car? Ben's irrational brain wonders. 

_Is he about to get caught because this was a fucking stolen car all along??_

 

He's holding his breath, watching attentively at the policeman's face when he checks the rear of the Audi.

He gives his colleague a knowing look.

 

Ben might throw up anytime now.

 

As the man starts coming back, Ben's speculations don't stop. Was the trunk not properly closed, maybe? What did they see?

He slowly exhales through his nose, his heart still pounding in his chest. 

 

"Is--Is there a problem?" He hears himself croak. 

 

The policeman narrows his eyes at him. 

"...you're coming from Les Souris Vertes?"

 

It feels like Ben's heart stops beating completely. His eyes don't leave the officer's. 

There's a silence that's too long for a situation like this one. But Ben can't utter a single word. He glances at the side view mirror. 

 

The other man is leaning against the police car, his arms crossed. 

 

There isn't enough time for Ben to know if he should lie. 

 

Slowly, he nods. 

 

The policeman eyes him. 

"Never seen you before."

 

Ben just stares, hands clenching with white knuckles at the wheel. He doesn't know what to say to that. 

 

The man nods once. 

"Alright.  _Drive safe,_ " he tells Ben -before walking back to his car.

 

Ben's chest heaves. 

 

In the rear view mirror, he sees the two men exchange a few words. 

 

His throat is tight as can be, and his hands are shaking beyond belief. 

 

As he starts the engine, his voice, shaky, comes back. 

 

"Can't believe it. Can't fucking believe it. Can't believe it."

 

This is it. 

This is really it this time. 

 

Fifteen minutes later, he parks the car again on the side of the road. 

And he leaves it there. 

 

He's close to fall when he has to slide along the slope before crossing the first field. He starts walking. Fast.

 

It's not a good decision. 

It's just  _a_  decision. 

 

The adrenaline doesn't let him and his mind rest for a second. 

It'd be stupid of him to go show himself in any city around here. Also, it might be stupid of him to think they'll come look for him here. 

The truth is he can't say.

And he can't think. 

 

When the night comes, he doesn't stop walking -and he doesn't stop coming up with scenarios in which the loser in the end is always him, no matter what.

It takes him nineteen hours of avoiding the roads, before sudden leg cramps urge him to find somewhere to sleep. 

 

Most houses in this part of France, in the countryside, are usually secondary residences -he knows the kind.

 

The one he chooses, at least, really looks unoccupied to him. 

 

But Ben is an idiot. 

He doesn't know what he's doing. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Don't break me down / I've been travelin' too long / I've been trying too hard](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=abVfXhRZMFc)  
> I hear the birds on the summer breeze, I drive fast  
> I am alone in the night  
> Been tryin' hard not to get into trouble, but I  
> I've got a war in my mind  
> Don't leave me now  
> Don't say good bye  
> Don't turn around  
> Leave me high and dry
> 
> I'm tired of feeling like I'm fucking crazy  
> I'm tired of driving 'till I see stars in my eyes  
> I look up to hear myself saying, baby  
> Too much I strive, I just ride
> 
> If you're curious,  
> 1.  
> [Here's the itinerary from Marseille to Grenoble](https://www.google.com/maps/dir/Marseille/Grenoble/@44.3335514,4.1270692,8.25z/data=!4m14!4m13!1m5!1m1!1s0x12c9bf4344da5333:0x40819a5fd970220!2m2!1d5.36978!2d43.296482!1m5!1m1!1s0x478af48bd689be6f:0x618c10cd6e995398!2m2!1d5.724524!2d45.188529!3e0)
> 
> 2.  
> [This is Marseille and her infamous Vieux Port, where Ben and Karim drive at night to get to their hotel. This is also, as I've said before, where I live. The people in the forefront are selling fish ^^](https://www.google.com/maps/@43.2951867,5.3739114,3a,75y,69.71h,91.61t/data=!3m8!1e1!3m6!1sAF1QipPpXTVFgodEs2BlNVzcUnY6NylTDEWH984HiJh7!2e10!3e11!6shttps:%2F%2Flh5.googleusercontent.com%2Fp%2FAF1QipPpXTVFgodEs2BlNVzcUnY6NylTDEWH984HiJh7%3Dw203-h100-k-no-pi-0-ya226.56123-ro0-fo100!7i5660!8i2830)
> 
> 3.  
> [Here's what wikipedia has to say about Le Milieu, or Mitan, the organized crime in France (the French mafia, if you will):](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Milieu_\(organized_crime_in_France\))
> 
> "Primarily, organized crime in France is based in its urban, major cities such as Marseille, Grenoble, Paris, and Lyon. Organized criminals are collectively known as the French Mob and singularly known as les beaux voyous (i.e. "the goodfellas") operating within Le Milieu (French: luh mil-yuh; i.e. "the underworld")."  
> [...]  
> The most prominent criminal organization within Le Milieu is the [Corsican mafia _[notes of the author: Ange is from Corsica]_](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Corsican_mafia). Modern (1990s–present) criminal activity is managed by the Marseille-based Unione Corse and Northern Corsica-based Gang de la Brise de Mer (i.e. "the sea breeze gang").  
> [...]  
> These two mobs remain powerful as of 2018, often controlling nightclubs, bars, restaurants, apartments, and hotels in Aix-en-Provence, Marseille and the French Riviera."
> 
> 4.  
> [This is Ben's gun](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Colt_M1911). It's used a lot in France by gangs and organized criminals.
> 
> 5.  
> The name of the bistrot where Ben works, Les Souris Vertes, is a reference to a [French gang called Le Gang des souris vertes, active from 2003 to 2006, known for robbing bank money](https://fr.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gang_des_souris_vertes).
> 
> 6.  
> The feeling Ben experiences many times while working for Ange is a psychological/psychiatrical phenomenom called [Dissociation (mentioned in the tags)](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dissociation_\(psychology\)). It's what Rey experiences too when she sees Ben for the first time and isn't able to entirely process what's happening to her.


	21. Itchy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE, PEOPLE, stop by [Selunchen's twitter](https://twitter.com/selunchen/status/1076077198019346433) or [tumblr](https://selunchen.tumblr.com/post/181293758517/heres-a-post-to-honour-you-benrim-ben-karim-from) to profess your love for her, as she's granted us with the sweetest, most gorgeous fanart Benrim shippers could hope for (illustrating the kiss between Ben and Karim in the precedent chapter.)  
> Go on and _check it out_ , you won't regret it =')

 

 

She doesn't know how long she's slept. Even in the shadow of the lime tree, it's too hot for it to be healthy. There's barely any wind, and the sun is shining strong. Gives her and Ben a taste of the summer to come. 

 

She gets more vitamin D walking five minutes under the sun here, than she can get spending a whole year in London. 

 

She's got to wonder if it's in her head, or if Ben is the reason for it rather than the sun, but today she feels like she can  _do things_. She could go for a walk without forcing too much. She could do some cleaning around the house. 

 

She could take a shower without a second thought. 

 

And she hasn't taken a shower a day two days in a row in a while. Maybe a year. 

 

Despite her unhoped-for energy, she still ends up taking a nap right after lunch -and she blames the weather. 

 

This time, however, Ben is napping with her, a few feet away from her, on his front in the grass. His eyes are still closed. If he's awake, it doesn't look like he has the intention of moving anytime soon. 

 

He was completely sheltered by the leaves of the lime tree when she lied down: enough time has passed that he's partly in the sun now.

 

This morning, Ben shows that a long night spent flushed against one another -her leg over his hips, his body keeping her right against the back of the couch, his arm around her -is enough to rebuild his confidence entirely, as he decretes when they both enter the kitchen that there'll be  _no breakfast today_. 

 

"It's already eleven, I'm gonna start baking the pie for lunch instead."

 

She gapes, outraged.

 

She knows he's not exactly keeping her from eating what she wants, as much as letting her know he won't prepare it.

 

And she feels good enough today that she could prepare it, but she's been missing his attention for a whole day and she wants to bask in it again, the sooner the better.

 

She's back into her habit of following him around in the kitchen very easily as he moves left and right from one point to another, opening the cupboards while she demands that he tends to her needs with a "It's still morning, I'm hungry  _now_."

 

"Someone help her, she's hungry," he says flatly, his eyes on the pastry he's unrolling on the counter.

 

He turns to her then, and takes her wrist to bring her slack hand to her mouth as she flinches, frowning: 

 

" _Here_ -eat your hand."  

His attention is back on the preparation of his pie when he adds, muttering: "Save the other one for later."

 

She got up five minutes ago, and she's as hot as if she ran in the sun. It's sunny as fuck, outside. She ties her hair up into a high ponytail wishing she could say her pout is for show.

 

It's likely that she's in fact that much of a brat to him.

 

She looks at him, at his middle that she'd like to circle with her arms and hold tight against her, the way she did all night, and she wonders if in the light of day that wouldn't actually be crossing some kind of line regarding the real level intimacy they share.

 

 _Personally_ , she feels like his body should never leave hers, that he should always be tucked against her front in some way. That's just how she  _personally_  feels about it. 

 

Her kind, polite giant doesn't look like he misses her warmth quite like she does his, which is most certainly a wrong impression she has of the situation, she knows it must be, but she can't help and wait with way too much feelings for the next sign that he, in fact, needs her too. 

 

Right as she's dealing with those idiotic thoughts, he turns around, his back to the counter next to the fridge on the opposite side of the kitchen, and looks at her. 

 

She stills and blushes, alert and a bit embarrassed by what feels like an intrusion -as if he could actually read her mind.

 

He remains like that just an instant, looking very unsure, and she doesn't understand why -until he sheepishly taps two times with the fingertip of his index on his lower lip, barely holding her gaze, waiting there.

 

Silently asking for a kiss. 

 

There's no need for him to make her breakfast anymore -a tap of a finger on a lip was what she didn't know she was waiting for.

 

Her emotion doesn't only come from the kiss she's about to give, or about the fact that he asks her for one.

 

It's that he asks for it the way he would have when he used to speak to her with his hands, the first few days, pointing at things, making her feel like they shared a secret language from day one -and like she belonged with him, when he was still a complete stranger to her.

 

The warmth that blooms under her ribs feels new and familiar all at once. 

 

She doesn't allow any sort of suspense to hang in the air and crosses the room as soon as he summons her, her face hot. He shudders at the absence of hesitation from her, swallowing -letting himself lean gently on her mouth when she tilts her head back, her lips waiting for his, her arms finally retrieving their purpose by circling his waist. 

 

His thumb caresses her nape, and she feels on her cheek a long sigh of relief when his lips finally press several pecks on her mouth. 

 

It feels like he's melting around her, and when he finally breaks off their embrace, he asks her, appeased, quiet: "What do you want? ...for breakfast?"

 

"Nothing," she mutters, her eyes on the pastry on the counter. "I want to save my appetite for the pie."

 

Outside, an hour later, they sit by the lime tree to eat, with nothing more than what's strictly necessary.

 

Their plates, one glass, and the bottle of Rouge. 

 

She sits cross-legged, and he's his back against the tree, cutting small bites, his hand too large around his fork, as she prefers to go with her hands on her slice and burn her fingers and her tongue rather than try to be as patient as he is. 

 

All her attention is on her food for a long moment as she swallows without taking a second to savor what he made for even one second, until she wipes her mouth with her hand and catches his eyes on her before he lowers them on his pie. 

 

She'd be about to point out that her lack of manners can hardly be a surprise to him anymore, if she didn't realize exactly what caught his attention. 

 

Her ponytail. 

 

Hasn't she tied up her hair even once since he's known her? 

 

She shrugs it off, and downs the glass of wine. 

 

She's the one who lies down first, on her back, full and sated, ready to sleep the wine off.

 

"We got up two hours ago," he points out. 

 

"I bet you anything that you fall asleep in the next five minutes if you lie down," she retorts, her eyes going over the leaves gently rustling above her, hiding the sky from her.

 

He lies down on his front, his hand under his cheek, closing his eyes. 

 

When she opens her eyes again, he's turned his head to the other side.

 

From where she is, the curve of his lower back, along with his shoulders and his ass are what catch her attention. She sits up. 

 

She's not alert enough then to be able to perceive that there's a link between what she sees and the memories that suddenly pop up in her mind.

 

Her eyes linger on his form as a confusing haze of brief moments in time from when she was a little girl come back to her, memories of  her mother's appartment, her mother's couch, her own little single bed, her closet, the pillows and the teddy bears and the plaids and the comforters she could find there, and how she had to make sure her mother was busy, in the kitchen, or in the shower -so Rey could finally have a minute to lie on her front and tuck between her legs whatever was at reach to rub herself good against it, bucking her hips again and again until she felt warm all over--- 

 

She blinks a few times, her mouth watering. 

On her knees, she approaches him in the grass to see if his eyes are opened, and they aren't. Tentatively, she runs her nails in his hair. 

He hums. 

 

Good enough. 

 

She glances at his ass one more time, and inhales.

 

Straddling him, she carefully lets herself down on him, gently, her chest against his back, her hips right on his ass that she finds to be firm just so, and waits, very still, for him to let her know if he's got any problem with that. 

 

He doesn't move an inch, and barely lets out a faint sound when she lets herself weigh on him. 

 

Her forehead between his shoulder blades, she huffs quietly trying to find the right position, gingerly readjusting herself, her hands on the grass at his sides--

 

 _Grinding_  isn't the proper word for how tentative she is and how lightly she goes, but it looks like it -her legs spread and folded on each side of him, she gently rolls her hips against his ass, somehow not owning it at all but doing it anyway. She does it a first time, very slowly, and when he doesn't react, a second time, slightly more confidently, closing her eyes, her mouth on his back, then a third ti---

 

"What. Are. You.  _Doing_."

 

She stills completely, eyes wide.

 

She doesn't know what she was expecting -or what she wanted, even- because she was hardly hoping he wouldn't notice -but his voice thrumming through her chest, however low, still sends her heart beating strong as if she had been caught her hand in the cookie jar. 

 

Muffled by his back, she tries a small: "--what?"

 

Her hips itch already, and she shifts them a bit against him: "I'm---cuddling you."

 

She rolls them very tentatively once more, closing her eyes again, refocusing on the press of his ass right where she needs it--

 

He grunts a tired sigh, his back pushing against her front when he inhales. 

 

"...should I understand that you like me?"

 

Both her hands come up to grip his shoulders, and she rolls her hips again, pressing down on his ass. 

"Hold still," she breathes, her chest fluttering when she rubs herself exactly how she wants it, "so I can hug you  _just right_."

 

"Thank you, I was getting cold."

 

"You're welcome," she pants, grinding just a bit more frankly, but still wary of his thoughts on this.

 

She sees his eyes are half closed, and cast sideways, guessing all he must be able to see is a bit of her dress over her leg. She doesn't quite pay attention, focused on the throb growing strong between her thighs, and proceed with her grinding when he asks:

 

"Where did I go wrong with you?"

Before he adds, as if to himself: "--I should have set some clear boundaries."

 

She huffs a small breathy: "-- _shut up"_ , rolling her eyes and her hips ---somehow not expecting him to suddenly rise on his hands and knees, knocking her over with a low: 

"...horny brat."

 

She lands with a faint thump on the grass and a loud: "Hey!"

 

Pushing a strand of hair away from her face, she looks up with a hand over her eyes as he stands right in front of the sun, looking down at her-and she thinks she doesn't hear him correctly when he says, his face blank: 

"On the bed."

 

"...what?" She croaks, genuinely confused, grunting when she stands up too.

 

" _...on the bed._ "

 

She asks again, stupid, almost gesturing around blinking: "What bed?" -before she stops, and looks up at him.

 

"Do I have to count to three?" He threatens, and she doesn't move, unable to process just yet what's happening: 

 

"Hh--"

 

"One," he starts, taking one step toward her, and she flinches a few steps back, stuttering: 

 

"Well--wha--- what is... ?"

 

_"Two."_

 

Her body finally catches up and she promptly turns around, adrenaline coursing through her legs as she quickly walks toward the house, almost running, fully awake now. 

 

_"--holy shit, holy shit, holyshitholyshitholyshit---"_

 

She runs to the bedroom and hurries to get on the bed, squirming, restless with anticipation _just like that_  -still huffing a faint  _ridiculous_  for good measure- then stilling, her eyes on the window. 

 

She gets off the bed and goes to it, watching in silence as he picks up the plates, the bottle and the glass, carrying everything back to the house. 

 

"Ridiculous," she repeats -but just as he's about to enter the house, she runs to the bed and climb back on it, her thighs pressed tight together, sitting on her heels, listening closely as he walks in.

 

He stops in his tracks after a few steps.

 

"Don't move," she hears him say from the living-room, his voice as low as if she was there with him. 

 

 _God_.  

 

His steps thump away from her part of the house -toward the kitchen. She hears the plates chinking and the water running right after. 

 

 _Christ_.

 

She huffs,  _again_ , still pressing her thighs together -proving to be not even a little bit patient a second later as she decides to tip-toe and peek through the doorway, purely out of defiance.

 

The bed creaks weakly, but it could just be that she's sitting more comfortably, so it doesn't stop her, and she puts her foot down to--

 

The water stops running. 

 

"---what did I  _just_  say?!" He growls all the way from the kitchen, and she immediately jumps back on the bed, shocked and aroused all at once.

 

 _Chill_ , she mouths, narrowing her eyes at the doorway and sitting back on her heels with a scowl -working her jaw, squirming. She exhales, and brings her hand between her thighs, just to rub herself briefly, get a bit of friction, but she stops just short when she hears him warn from the kitchen: 

 

"You better behave. I'll smell your fingers first thing when I get to you."

 

She gapes, scandalized, and she's about to yell  _So you're psychic, now??_  -stopping herself when she realizes it would prove him right, settling for a pathetic muttered: "I wasn't doing anything!" that he probably can't hear, not that he would care to hear it anyway. 

 

The water runs again, and she resumes her fidgeting, tightening her ponytail, rearranging her dress to give her hands something to do, clenching her jaw. 

 

She lets her head fall back grunting, eyes to the ceiling, utterly frustrated, her excitement morphing into exasperation, and she rubs her thighs up and down. 

 

_How long does it take to wash two plates??_

 

But she straightens up when she water stops running once more.

 

 _So stupid_ , she thinks,  _hard_ , to try and counter how strongly her heart is beating when his steps get closer and closer. Her panties are truly soaked, now -this is ridiculous. 

 

She snorts defensively at his blank expression when he finally comes in, and approaches her -and she wriggles on her knees to the end of the bed, both her hands reaching for him --

 

He leans back, avoiding her touch, his face still as serious as can be, his arms at his sides. 

 

"But??" She squeaks, face falling. 

 

"Turn around, on your knees, face against the mattress."

 

The order is given with a tone so flat she needs a few seconds to register it, and when she does, she purses her lips, and slowly moves to do as she's told. 

"Whatever."

 

Her cheek pressed on the mattress, she's her ass in the air the next moment, feeling her face heat up and the throb between her thighs intensify. 

 

He's unmoved by her apparent embarrassment.

"Spread your knees more. Arch your back."

 

She grits her teeth, not moving at first, trying to swallow down her pride. 

 

He doesn't make it easy for her. 

 

"Come on, do as you're told," he says, pushing her dress and letting it fall to her waist, uncovering her without actually touching her. "...and keep your attitude in check."

 

She inhales deeply to refrene from outright  _groaning_ \----and spreads her knees more, canting her hips, her head pushing further into the bed. 

 

She locks some air in her lungs when she feels his hand rests on her ass, before he asks, casual:

"Comfortable?"

 

"If you can't see me: I'm rolling my eyes."

 

He ignores that, and she swallows thickly when he tugs on her panties just so -to stuck the fabric between her cheeks. 

 

She waits way too long then -a few seconds-  that he touches her, and when he does, it's to slightly pull on her skin at the back of her left thigh, mid-way between her ass and her knee. It barely qualifies as a pinch, and as soon as it's done he removes his hand.

 

She frowns, but the contact has her go rigid with interest nonetheless. 

 

When he does it again on the same thigh, just higher, she remains very still. 

 

The third pinch is still light, and done on the  _inside_  of her thigh, too close to home to leave her indifferent. She clenches her stomach, along with the rest, and he must be able to see that. 

 

She clears her throat as he removes his hand again.

 

 _Then_ , he pinches her again, and this time, he definitely means it -right where her ass ends and her thigh begins, slightly on the inside, meaning close to her cunt. 

 

Her whole body tenses and she opens her mouth wide soundlessly, eyes shut, hands fisting the sheet ---before relaxing again after a few seconds, blinking.  

 

Her hand lets go of the sheet to rub the pain away. She stills mid-way when he warns behind her: 

"Hands where I can see them."

 

Reluctantly, she brings her hand back next to her head. 

 

She holds her breath then, bracing herself for the next one. 

 

When he pinches the fine skin under her ass  _hard_  a second time, she jolts, hissing.

 

He just waits patiently for her to settle back. 

 

She huts her eyes good in anticipation, her pussy throbbing.

 

When he does it again, though, he takes it easy, and she actually  _sighs_. 

 

Which leaves her unprepared for the next pinch. He does it on the inside, right next to her pussy and _with feelings,_ and she yelps, squirming, moving her ass side to side.

 

She hears him exhale, and she can't tell exactly what the sound means, how he's liking this -although she can be sure he's liking it. 

 

It's not the touch she's yearning for at all, nor is it where she needs it, but she's too aroused for the pain and the frustration not to arouse her even more.

 

He does it a few more times, sometimes lightly, sometimes not at all, close or less close from her ass and her pussy, never getting in direct contact, and she clenches, huffs, worms -flinches, hisses, squirms, until finally she  _groans loud_ , exceeded, her face hot and her jaw tight: 

 

"-- _what's the point of this?"_

 

"The point of this is I enjoy watching your ass wiggle," he tells her with the most serious tone. 

 

He barely brushes his fingertips right next to her pussy, for just a second, and she flinches, anticipating him to be vicious at any time now. 

 

He makes a noise that lets her guess he's trying to keep from laughing, and she mutters a sharp: "...asshole."

 

He pinches her hard, at a spot that has already been attacked, and she yelps again, back arching. 

" _Language_."

 

She's about to snap another retort but she gasps sharply instead, when the faintest brush of his fingertips over her cunt, front to back, sends her hips canting hard. 

 

She opens her eyes wide, arching her back more, as if to invite the contact back, then stills. 

 

He does it again, very slowly, along her slit, and she reflexively rolls her hips -but he's careful to barely touch her through the fabric of her panties. 

 

She doesn't have the time to huff her frustration that he pinches her  _again_. 

 

The slight shame of her position, the heat, the pain as he toys with her, all join forces to test her patience.

 

 _"Come on!"_  She whines, writhing.

 

"What is it?" 

He sounds serene as ever. Unperturbed.

 

She buries her face in the sheet, feeling a heat bloom over her face, her chest and her cunt, as she repeats, her voice muffled: "Come  _on_ \--"

 

She stills when he delicately gather her hair -then very progressively pulls on it, slowly tilting her head back and off the mattress, arching her neck:

"Sorry, can't hear you," he explains, as stoic as ever.

 

He's bent over her, bracing himself with his other arm on the mattress, and he probably takes pity on her when he sees her open and close her mouth several times, struggling to find the words. 

 

Ever the generous soul, he helps her, watching her reaction closely. 

 

"...is it  _itchy_  inside?"

 

She just knows, then, that her entire face must be bright red, and she should just embrace her embarrassment or she'll never get what she wants given how slow things are going.

 

"Yes," she chokes out, her neck strained back. 

 

"...need me to scratch it for you?" 

 

"...yes. Yes," she confirms, mortified.

 

"Ask for it, and ask nicely," he advises, still holding her ponytail tight, insisting: " _Nicely_. With feelings. I'm listening."

 

Her hands fist the sheet with white knuckles.

 

"Please," she grunts, closing her eyes, before murmuring: "...scratch me." 

 

" _Where?"_  He asks, and she's not bothered by it because he stands back and removes her panties, finally, dragging them down her thighs. 

 

As if on cue, she feels herself getting wetter. 

 

"In ---inside," she breathes.  

 

Without further warning, he pushes a finger in -and she jolts, gasping.

 

 _"Here?"_  

 

He's still not letting go of her hair, and she lets out several strangled, breathy: "Yes,  _yes_. Here, yes."

 

He slowly lets go of her hair, using his hand to lazily rub her cunt instead while his other hand slowly pumps her. She bucks against him, afraid it might not last, getting everything she can get. He doesn't wait more time than that to push a second finger inside. 

 

She presses her mouth on the mattress and breathes heavily in it, right when his own lips loudly kiss her ass.

 

"I don't think I can quite reach the spot... Don't mind if I use my cock instead?"

 

"...no, no I don't," she pants.

 

She barely has the time to clench around nothing when he removes his fingers, that the head of his cock replaces them.

 

She opens her mouth wide, without a sound, bracing herself on her hands to adjust the angle.  

 

He steadily pushes inside without further preambule, stretching her slowly.

 

"There," he grunts, gripping her hips with the clear intent to assure the progression doesn't stop until her ass is flushed against him.

 

" _Theeere_ ," he groans again, low, when he's fully seated. He bends over her and starts slowly grinding, his mouth at her nape:

"How's that? ...isn't it  _nice_?"

 

She just pants back, her arms and her legs weak, pushing against him. 

" _Hands_ ," he growls when her hand goes for her clit, and she stills, bringing it back on the bed, rolling her hips instead. 

 

He slowly, slowly slowly  _slowly_  fucks her, taking all his time dragging his cock in, and out, his arm around her waist keeping her firmly against him, somewhat limiting her movements -causing her to whine all the more with impatience. 

 

"Something wrong?" He asks, huffing out what sounds like a laugh, but she pays no attention to it, and just arches her back as much as she can to try and get  _more_.

 

"I know what you need," she hears in her ear, and she holds her breath again when she feels his warmth leave her back, his hand holding her hip good --

 

\--his other hand landing square on her ass. 

 

She doesn't know why, but although he's not holding back, or maybe  _because_  he's not holding back, she expects him to hit once, for show, and finally fuck her good. 

 

Instead, he slaps her ass  _again_ , same spot, and again,  _harder_ , making her clench and cry -interrupting himself with a few, sharp, punishing thrusts, holding her in place with both his hands, grunting.

 

When his hand pulls on her ponytail, arching her back, she manages to ask through gritted teeth: 

_"Having fun?"_

 

He slaps her ass and pulls on her hair in retaliation.  _"Yes."_

 

"It  _hurts,"_ she accuses -although she carefully doesn't mention that she's never more aroused in her entire life.

 

"That's the point," he shoots back with ragged breaths, bending to breathe on her neck as if to share a secret:

 

"...when you hurt, you clench hard around my cock--" He pinches her, to demonstrate, she supposes, and she squeaks in response while she gets to hear him let out a pleasured and throaty sigh: "...and that feels  _very good_  to me," he concludes. 

 

He picks up the pace, shaking her whole body while his arm holds her in place: 

"Do you want me to stop? I'll stop--"

 

He pinches her now burning ass, and she hisses, but lets out between pants a strangled, shaken and shameful : "N--no."

 

He bends over her, his chin in the crook of her neck, pouting, vaguely grinding his hips: 

 

"...but it looks like you're hurting badly?" 

 

To taunt her, he pinches her at the same spot.

 

She clenches her fists, her eyes shut hard, but doesn't respond -so he sends his hips hard against her to wake her up. 

 

"You sure you don't want me to stop?"

 

"Yes!!"

 

"One stroke, and you're good to go," he observes, out-of-breath, taking hold of her hips. "Wanna bet?"

 

She doesn't get to retort anything, because he charges, cutting her off. She opens her mouth wide to the sounds of his hips slapping her ass -retrieving her voice to quite literally  _sob_. 

 

He pants, pushing them both through it, his hands bruising her ass with his grip, breathing in between thrusts:

"You've done good---you've been good for me----haven't you?---Look at you---- _all sweet and desperate_ \--"

 

"Sweet thing," he says again, his hand reaching for her clit: "--- _here_."

 

Her whole body lets go the second he's in contact with it.

He rubs her good through the spasms as she cries, swearing -before a sharper thrust sends her off his cock and on her front on the mattress. She moans one last time, practically drooling, when a hand on her lower back presses her down. 

 

"Don't move," he chokes out.

 

She's catching her breath, face on the bed and eyelids heavy -her pussy still throbbing when she feels hot, thick ropes of cum over her ass, his hand now spreading a cheek as he breathes through it, pumping himself over her until nothing's left and she's covered to his satisfaction.

 

He sits back then, his thumb absently smearing it over her ass, making her hum and close her eyes. He zones out for a brief moment -then bends over her, pushing a few strands of hair out of her face -and turning her on her back. She sighs.  

 

He's mumbling something, his mouth kissing its way from her shoulder to her cheek, then pressing against her own. She lets him do, her eyes still closed.

 

"What?" she asks between kisses. 

 

"Shower-time, chaton," he murmurs.

 

Because he slides his arm under her legs to carry her, saving her the effort of walking there, she silently agrees to it. 

 

She doesn't see, then, how the bliss could ever stop. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [You can keep me warm, on a cold night. Warm, on a cold, cold night.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CX5f0NcqlMs)
> 
>  
> 
> Here, some smut. Merry Christmas ^^!
> 
> I'll be away this week, and I should be back on thursday =/  
> Sorry for the wait -I hope I'll have some time to write. 
> 
> Thank you so so much for reading again <3<3<3


	22. Funny stories

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Check out the new moodboard in town! =D](https://plantsandlamps.tumblr.com/post/181356859247/mitan-midi-by-plantsandlamps-this-fic-has-so) (wasn't able to link the original blog, so I posted mine, but be sure to let the hero know you appreciate the work ='D)

 

Three days pass, and Rey gets a taste of what life with depression could be like: _not so bad._

 

A little more than not so bad: almost good. Actually good. 

 

Actually really good. 

 

Ben proves to be a true cuddler, despite having shown how much he enjoys hurting her.

 

If he could have any say in it, she senses that he would be cradling her non-stop.

 

And she's never been one for cuddles at all. But with him, she really is. 

 

The first time, she doesn't even truly understands how badly she needs one -a cuddle.

 

She's letting the hot water hit her back, letting his hands soothe her tired muscles, pressing lightly where she needs it. 

He just thoroughly spanked and fucked her, before jerking her forward spent and used on the bed.

 

It leaves her emotionally and physically drained -like after a long swim---and she lets him carry her to the bathroom and wash her. 

 

He takes charge again in a very different way, while she allows herself to zone out. It doesn't feel like the usual thing when she does -she doesn't leave her body per se. She feels oddly at peace. 

 

They both stand naked this time. He softly tells her to move, or to close her eyes so the soap doesn't get into them, but other than that, they don't speak. The water running and the kisses he leaves on her brow, her temple or her nose, fill the quiet instead.

 

Out of the shower, he looks serene, spent himself, until his eyes catch sight of something in the mirror as she's standing her back to it, and his hand covers his mouth. He tries to disguise it as a cough at the last moment, hiding behind his wet hair. Too late. 

 

"What?" She croaks, still half in a haze. 

 

"Nothing." He patiently dries her up, droplets still running down his own skin, guiltily trying his best to school a smile, pressing his lips together. "...do you think we have some arnica somewhere?"

 

"How would I know--" she starts mumbling -before straightening up, understanding, her eyes well opened. She twists, trying to get a look at her ass.

 

She gapes at the red marks she finds there.

 

He's already crouching down, and soon is fumbling around in the cupboard under the sink, checking what ointments are there -and also hiding his amusement from her.

 

He looks down at one used tube of arnica, standing up. "I think that it actually might have expired, but," --he pauses, turning it in his hands, before shrugging: "it'll still do."

 

She frowns, confused, watching him as he squirts a generous quantity in the palm of his hand, then as he gently pulls her by the arm to position her so he can access her ass: "I don't feel it, though?" she asks, trying to make sense of what she saw. 

 

"Well," he murmurs, not bothering to hide his smug smirk anymore as he starts spreading the balm over her. "You might feel it later."

 

She huffs without truly meaning it. The smell of the arnica gel fills up her nose as he tenderly massages it in the reddened skin of her ass. "Proud of yourself?"

 

"Yes," the shameless little shit tells her, clearly pleased with his handiwork. He bends, brushes his lips on her cheekbone, mouthing on her skin: "Why --you're not proud of me?"

 

Her eyes lidded, she mindlessly takes hold of his arm for balance, soothed by his caress.

 

His hand gently kneading her ass, he kisses her when she doesn't answer, and she lets him. 

 

He's the first one to sit on the couch once they're both dressed, and he watches her as she very slowly emerges from her state, stepping into the living-room -absently rubbing her ass.

 

"Come lie down with me?" he asks, his eyes where her hand is, and that makes her suspicious.

 

"Why?"

 

He shrugs once more, his eyes finding her face again as she approaches him: "For emotional comfort."

 

"I don't need any emotional comfort," she quietly retorts, trying to get back some of the dignity she thinks she lost an hour earlier.

 

"--I meant for me." 

 

She snorts, but even though it's just a joke, he's still a clever man for it: he'll be giving her what she needs while pretending with her she doesn't, or just not as much as he does. The moment she's close enough, his arms wrap around her legs, then up around her waist. 

 

She's tucked at his side a moment later as they're lying down on the couch, her forehead just within his mouth reach.  

 

The sun is on the opposite side of the house. The wind blows a bit more than earlier, and the breeze reaches the couch. Their embrace is all the more welcome.

 

She waits for the moment she'll invevitably be tired of it, and it just doesn't come. 

 

They form the stupid habit of cuddling on that couch after dinner, watching the night grow dark and staying there until morning -despite that there's a perfectly good bed waiting for them in the next room. 

 

She refuses none of his kisses, and no moment is a bad time for him to wrap himself around her -she holds him back systematically, her hands reaching for whatever they can get without fail. 

 

He's a cuddler. 

 

She's in his arms under the shower, on his lap after lunch, or her head on his chest under the lime-tree as they go outside together several times, her brain having seemingly registered it as a possibility now. 

 

She still worries, at times, that he might get tired of it, but unless she's inattentive -which, being depressive, she probably is- she sees no sign of that so far. 

 

He seems to grow more comfortable around her by the minute, more than he already is -comfortable enough to kiss her umprompted and see for himself that she has no intention to reject him; comfortable enough to pull her to him, hold her, coo at her -toy with her, tease her, cage her --- bend her in half, hold her down, pound into her until she stops talking back, takes everything with a smile and says _thank you._

 

He likes that. 

 

When it's done, he starts it all over.

 

He's bouncing her on his lap one morning, as he's sitting back on the couch, making her stutter lewd little mewls while he sushes her, enjoying the false pretense that it helps her take him, as if his cock was her  _medecine_  and she had to be reasonable and have it because she needs it  ---when she suddenly asks him, slowing him down until he's strangely tender, grinding up against her: 

"Are you clean?"

 

He doesn't seem even a little bit unfazed about the timing of the question, clearly distracted, and nods without hesitation, before  he breathlessly asks back: "Are you?"

 

She wheezes then between two sharp inhales, rolling her eyes at the thought of the rather limited number of sexual partners she's had total --and of the long period of celibacy that preceded her move to France ever since she got tested, a long time ago, renderring the question just ridiculous. Of course she's clean. 

 

She frowns when she feels him go still, meet his widening eyes with confusion ---before realizing: he doesn't know that. 

 

And she's just replied with silence to a very, very important question. 

 

"Yes!!" she blurts out, out-of-breath "...I am, I --- _sorry_ -"

 

They know so little of each other.

 

When she feels him relax under her, she adds dryly: "Good thing we're having-- this-- conversation  _now_ \--"; she's cut short by a vicious roll of his hips, but she still manages to breathe the end of her thought: "...before we do anything serious."

 

"Of course," he agrees, slowly picking up the pace, until she's crying again and can barely hear him mock, panting: "...safety first."

 

Soft cuddles and rough cuddles do a whole lot for her, but she's particularly happy to  _talk_  to him. Especially since he's bound to listen to a lot of boring, depressing nonsense from her and still does it without a complaint. 

 

"If you think I'm disgusting now, you should have known me back in London," she tells him one evening as he's finishing his plate. She's sipping her glass of rouge.

 

"I don't think that. I think you're  _gross_." 

 

"Before I came here," she continues without paying attention to that: "I hadn't moped my floors in over  _a year and a half_."

 

He represses a wince. 

 

She's unbothered. 

"...and I wish I could say I was careful and didn't drop any food on those floors, but I'd be lying."

 

"Great."

 

"I know," she agrees, taking from him the piece of bread he was holding to go with his cheese -eating it without anything. "I'm so  _cool_ ," she comments, chewing -then dropping the sarcasm to muse some more about her old life:

 

"It's not even that I was too...  _useless,_  to be able to do it. I sometimes felt like I physically could push myself to mop those damn wooden floors once and for all, but there's actually just one reason why I wouldn't."

She looks right at him as he's slicing himself another piece of bread. "Do you want to know what the reason was?"

 

"I'm scared, but go ahead."

 

She straightens up, placing her hands on the table to gesture them around, as if to better get the information across:

"Listen. I couldn't mop my floors, because I needed to vacuum them." He's nodding, looking down at his plate. "And I couldn't vacuum them, because the vacuum bag was full."

 

His eyes are still on his plate, but he nods again to show he's listening. When she remains silent, he stops chewing his bread and looks up --realizing she's done with her explanation. 

 

"...that's it?" he asks with disbelief. "... _the vacuum bag was full_  is the reason why you lived in the dirt?"

 

She shrugs a dispassionate  _yup --_ before elaborating on it:

 

"I could gather enough will and energy to clean the floors, but not to change the vacuum bag-- cause you had to throw the bag away when it was full, and put a new one. That meant that I had to figure out how to secure the new bag in my vacuum cleaner, because I had never done it before -the vacuum cleaner was new," she clarifies, lower.

 

"Which meant that I had to find where I placed the new bags in the appartment in the first place, _if I had any_. And if I didn't have any bag, it meant that I had to  _leave my appartment and buy some_."

 

She downs the rest of her  _rouge_ before concluding: 

"The sole perspective of changing the vacuum bag kept me from cleaning my floors." He's stopped eating. "I'll call you a liar if you tell me that's not the funniest shit you've heard in a long time."

 

"My ribs hurt from laughing so hard," he deadpans.

 

She eyes him.

 

"You're not perfect, you know," she finally informs him, right after thinking he is for indulging her. 

 

"I'm not?"

 

"You have too much will to live. You should want to die at least a little bit every day to stay healthy." 

 

"Noted." 

 

She watches him as he gets up, gathering the dishes together to bring them to the sink. She's not quite done not receiving his full attention. 

"I have more funny stories. You're ready?"

 

"God help me."

 

"Sometimes, in the morning," she starts, ignoring him once more, "it'd be really hard for me to get up. And I would just have my underwears on under the covers."

 

He turns around eyebrows up, his hand on the tap, waiting before turning it on so he can hear the rest. She stands up, too excited to tell him about something that's in  _no way_  exciting: 

 

"I would think over and over:  _time to get up, okaaay, this time I get up, getting up right now_  --- and after a while, I'd be  _reaaally_  decided, and I would--" 

 

She opens one arm to mimic pushing an imaginary blanket away from her: "--remove the covers from me, to get myself to act on it."

 

He's still looking at her, still listening.

 

She looks up at the ceiling:

"But then, I would just--- look at the ceiling, lying there, with the covers off my body. And I'd stay there, for like...  _fifteen_  minutes...  _thirty_  minutes."

 

She looks at him then and makes a face, scrunching up her nose, as if to say:  _isn't that fucking insane?_

 

But he's only interested to know the end of what she had the gall to call  _a story_ :

"...and then?"

 

" _Theeen_ , here's the thing--" She's smiling wide, her eyes opened in excitment as she's about to deliver the punchline:

 

" _I would get cold!_  So I would pull the covers back on."

 

He slowly closes his eyes with a muttered  _Jesus_ , and turns back around to face the sink -but not before she gets to see that he's unable to hold back a smile.

 

He's entertained, she knew he would be. 

 

"Depression truly is funny," she assures him, stepping closer as he turns the tap on. "You just sort of can't laugh about it alone, I guess, but that's it."

 

His curiosity becomes serious again, though -even though he remains casual about it. 

 

"Didn't anybody know about it? Your friends? Your co-workers?"

 

"That I didn't clean my floors?" She asks, looking down at the water running. 

 

"That you're depressed."

 

She bites the inside of her cheek. 

"My friends... knew, but there was so much they could do. They had to move on at some point." She grimaces: "My co-workers, no." 

 

He swiftly cleans both their plates. "...your parents knew?"

 

She rips the bandage. 

"My mother is dead, and I never knew my father."

 

She's not looking at him -she just hears a faint  _oh_. Before he can ask anything, she adds: "I just know my father was a Frenchman."

 

He doesn't react, almost done with the dishes. She's right next to him and watches his face attentively. "Maybe you're my brother, and we don't even know it."

 

He can't help the wince. "Like mentioned earlier, you're gross."

 

"We look so much alike."

 

"Right."

 

She gasps sharply. He looks at her, confused. 

 

"...maybe you're my  _father_ , and we don't even know!"

 

He doesn't even bother rolling his eyes, and grabs the towel to dry the plates. She doesn't let go. 

 

"Have you traveled in the UK in late 1989?"

 

"I was  _two_ in 1989."

 

"...that wasn't the question, was it?" she points out, crowding him as much as her small self can. "So you  _do_  have something to hide."

 

But then, he catches her off guard. She suspects he doesn't even mean for his words to have that much weight in this silly exchange, given that he's putting the plates away in the cupboards and not dramatically staring into her eyes. The tone, maybe, as he suddenly speaks slightly too low, and too softly in comparison to her, is what add that weight although he still vaguely sounds nonchalant saying it: 

 

" _I'll_   _be your family_ , Rey," he tells her while carefully placing the plates with the others. "...you don't have to try so hard."

 

Just like he probably didn't mean that much by it, she doesn't mean to fall silent, short on words all of a sudden. Standing by the sink, staring at the back of his head. 

 

He closes the cupboard, and warily turns around, unsure of how he made her feel or what the silence means. 

 

Once he does, she's also wary, but she takes two steps to him. 

 

And she circles his waist, head tilted back. 

 

He gently kisses her, his hold tight around her in return. 

 

This is one of the  _cuddle_  they share, during those three days. 

 

 

 

On the fourth day, he's waking her up -and it's never happened before.

 

He's dressed, kissing her hair as he tells her: 

"I'm going to see if there's a supermarket in a--  _village somewhere_ , and it's going to take some time."

 

"What time is it now?" She asks, eyes struggling to open. 

 

"Eight-thirty."

 

"...and you woke me up? Who gave you the right?"

 

"...I hope I'll be back by noon, but I can't really say. Okay, Rey?"

 

She sits up, and clears her throat. "Alright." Her voice that early in the morning sort of hides how poorly she handles the thought of him leaving the house. She can't imagine walking around for that long though. 

 

She'll have to trust him. 

 

He grabs his sports bag. "I assumed you'd want to stay here. You can prove me wrong, though."

 

"I presume you don't feel like changing your mind. Well you can prove me wrong too, if you want."

 

He hums, checking the inside of his wallet. "I don't want to wait until we have no food left, chaton."

 

He approaches her. 

"I'll have to stop often and be sure I memorize the roads I take." 

 

She shivers at the idea of him getting lost.

 

All she mutters is a small  _great_  he doesn't hear. 

 

"See you at noon," he murmurs, bending to kiss her. "I'm going to try and hurry, alright?"

 

She nods. 

 

The door closes behind him a few seconds later. 

Just like that, she's fully awake. 

 

Her nervous energy is unwarranted. She shouldn't be worried for him even a little bit, but she is. 

 

She's come a long way, though, hasn't she? 

 

Because like a true, healthy,  _grown adult_ , instead of letting her anxiety get to her, she gets up and decides to put all that unpleasant restlessness to good use. 

 

 _And clean_. 

 

Which, turns out isn't nearly as satisfying as she had anticipated, given that he cleans everything quite regurlarly, so there isn't that much to do.

 

She would have liked for the house to be at least dirty enough so that he could maybe notice the difference coming back. 

 

And like, maybe  _reward her_. 

 

So she figures she'll just tell him, to be sure it doesn't go unnoticed. 

 

She cleans the bathtub, scrubbing it, bent over and panting and wondering why on earth she chose to clean  _that_  of all things. It's surely the last time she even bothers.  

 

Next, she choses to vacuum the kitchen, and if she feels like it, the living-room -finding she's unreasonably happy that someone will be there to take care of changing the bag this time if there's any need to do so with this one. 

 

It's once she's in the kitchen, vacuuming a floor she sees him sweep every day, that she straightens up, content with herself for realizing that she's never seen him vacuum under the cushioned seats of the couch, for instance. And she knows for a fact for having eaten there countless times that she'll find a ton of crumbs under them. 

 

Although, again, that's not something he can notice just by walking in. 

 

She still decides to do it. 

 

And she's so glad she does, removing the first cushion, because she finds a gold necklace she didn't even realize she lost. She beams at it, sliding it in her pocket, certain, in that moment, that she can actually  _feel_  endorphins tickle her brain. 

 

Then certain, the next moment, that she can actually feel the level drop dramatically after removing the second cushioned seat. 

 

She freezes.

 

Eyes on the couch, for the longest time, she's unable to take another breath. 

 

The vacuum cleaner keeps roaring.

Despite that, it seems that all she can hear is her heart pounding.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I know how beautiful a young love is / Yet I was dreaming it](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dcsRiuzZbSU)
> 
>  
> 
> ..............look, maybe don't pay attention to the chapter count? There'll probably be more than 29 chapters total. Not a lot more, but probably more. Probably. We'll see soon enough.
> 
> Also I really hope I can update before Monday, because I leave again for New Year's Eve... I'll try my best =)


	23. The weather is cloudy here too, sometimes

 

The olive tree is the most common tree in the south of France -everyone has one in their yard.

 

But out here, in the Drôme, you can also find cypresses, pines, firs, oaks, chestnuts -trees standing wide and tall on the side of the road and on the hills.

 

A decor Ben found ideal when he left the Audi on the side of the road, and that he's finding to be ideal again right now. 

 

He has to follow the road. He can't really cut through the fields, now that he's trying to reach the next village and not just run away from someone.

 

The roads are narrow, they curl and turn and are pretty much deserted. If someone were to drive past Ben, they wouldn't see him instantly. So he follows the road but from behind the trees, even though the ground slopes there. It slows him down. 

 

It takes him more than an hour to find a village, and at first it doesn't seem like he's going to find any grocery store -only one or two restaurants, a church and a hotel. 

 

The sun shines strong around ten already, and the streets are empty on that side of the village.

 

Clothes are hanging at the windows, a few cats are strolling by, perfectly unafraid, and aside from the breeze, the chant of the cicadas and the faint sounds of somebody cooking on the other side of a window left open, the whole village is quiet.

People who owns houses here are either retired, or come visit during the summer and that's it. 

 

He's worried he'll have to walk to another village, when the screaming sound of an old metal curtain reveals the front of what has to be the smallest grocery store he's ever seen.

The red and green words  _Epicerie - Alimentation_  are struggling to show on the wood framing the door and the windows. 

 

He won't find any fresh vegetables there -but maybe cans and some fresh eggs, until next time. 

 

When he asks the brown-skinned middle-aged woman who seems to own the store if he can find a larger supermarket nearby -a small Carrefour or something- she scowls at him for what she must feel is a lack of tact, mentioning her competition to her face. 

 

\---despite all the money he just spent on her overpriced cans. 

 

He assures her that it's because he's looking for  _fresh vegetables_ , and she doesn't have any. 

 

"There's a market every sunday in front of the church. You'll find fresh vegetables there and then," she tells him, looking back down at her  _mots-croisés_  -crosswords, muttering low:  _"Carrefour, c'est de la merde."_

 

"Ok,  _excellente journée à vous_ ," he says back with a forced smile, not waiting for her to return the words as she most definitely looks like she won't -and he's already on his way back, his bag heavy with cans.

 

He's about to leave the village when just in time he catches sight of a few bikes exposed on the side of a house with an ugly sign that says  _A vendre_ , to sell. 

 

He rings at the door, hearing people eat inside from the open window, and when they don't answer he insists -one too many times.

 

 _"What,"_  a man barks on the other side of the door.

It opens, and Ben shoves a hundred euros bill in the skinny grandpa's face, the smallest he has now that he gave the woman his twenty euros: "Here. I'm taking a bike."

 

The man frowns, confused, but takes the money, poking his head outside to see which one Ben chooses. "None of them is worth a hundred,  _petit_. They're old."

 

"Keep the change," Ben says straddling one, struggling to keep balance with his bag. 

 

He chose the biggest one. It's nowhere near his size.

 

It'll still do, they desperately need something to move around. 

 

As he's about to say goodbye to the old man another masculine voice comes from inside that freezes the blood in his veins. He stills completely, looking at the man with wide eyes as he hears steps getting closer. He's unable to move. 

 

His relief is  _violent_  when an unfamiliar face shows up in the doorway, behind the older man. 

 

An unfamiliar face.

 

Not Ange's face. 

 

Somehow, that forty-something who's probably the old man's son, has the exact same voice as Ange. 

 

The man interrupts himself and stares at Ben, and Ben realizes it's because he's been staring too -so he waves awkwardly and finally leave. 

 

He's much more anxious on his way back to the house than he was leaving it. 

 

He should be rational and understand that the chances that people like  _them_  hang out in villages like this one are very, very very slim. They have no business here.

 

They  _actually_  have no business here.

 

He's vulnerable, though, he feels that now -for the first time in days since he's met Rey and she's caused him to focus entirely on her and nothing else. The fear is back under his ribs, and it feels all too familiar. 

 

It's the first time he's out of this house since he left Grenoble after all.

 

He's about to learn that, as crazy as it sounds, he had something more important than the  _corsican mafia_  to worry about. 

 

More important to him anyway.

 

The house is silent when he comes home, and that's to be expected. He leans the bike against the wall next to the French doors, and walks through them, letting his bag drop at his feet, hissing, rubbing his throbbing shoulder with a wince. 

 

He walks in, and, go figure why, when he sees the cushioned seats of the couch on the floor, it doesn't compute. It's as if he has forgotten about it completely.

 

His eyes rapidly go over the scene, the couch, the vacuum cleaner, and it's a strange scene, yes, but everything happens fast -the house is small, and with a few steps he's closer to the kitchen, and closer to her. 

 

Because Rey's sitting at the kitchen table, and even  _that_  is a rare sight. He'd have expected her to be on the couch, eating something.

 

She's sitting at the table, and she's not eating. 

 

In retrospect, maybe herself expected him to speak as soon as he'd walk in. 

 

She's not hiding it, so naturally, before he even speaks a word, his eyes fall on the eleven/forty-three he hid in the couch the first day he arrived here. 

 

It's on the table now, right in front of her. 

 

Naturally, he stops right in his tracks. 

 

And waits, holding his breath. 

 

She's silent. When he finally looks at her face as she turns to him, he can see that she's not trying to make the situation more dramatic than it already is, waiting for him in silence. 

Her silence means that she's thought the situation through and through without coming to a satisfying conclusion. 

 

And now, she's scanning his face to see if his reaction will enlighten her. 

 

Only then does he notice how red her eyes are, even if her face is perfectly blank now. She's not hunched, but sitting back in her chair.

None of it means that she's impassive, or relaxed in any way.

She's just drained. 

  

He doesn't know how that's something he hasn't anticipated. He doesn't know how he hasn't considered even for a second that that could happen.

 

It's as if the two, the gun and her, were so completely separate in his mind, that them together in the same room is proof that there's been a breach between two parallel universes. 

 

He can sense her tensing, even if it's near imperceptible. Maybe something on his face tells her he's also trying to make sense of the situation. And maybe that's not what she needs at all. 

 

He doesn't dare move, doesn't dare speak.

 

She might resent him for making her speak first, because she resorts to her favorite language: sarcasm. 

 

"I found Louise's automatic gun."

 

He doesn't know who the fuck Louise is, and he doesn't have the intention to ask; all his attention are on her hands, because they're slowly taking hold of the gun, almost as if she was trying to bring him to notice it. 

 

He's noticed it good by then, though. 

 

Despite that the safety's on, she's holding it in a way that makes him uneasy right away. She's not used to holding one, he would have expected that. Here, though, she's aiming it at herself while turning it in her hands, moving it in a way that's completely counter-intuitive. It tells him a lot about the state she's in. Not a state to be holding a gun. 

 

"Watch out, it's loaded," is what he replies to that. 

 

Making it clear that it's not, in fact, Louise's gun -whoever she is. 

 

He spoke firmly, yet low. As if the gun would fire at them at the sound of his voice. 

 

Finally, she swallows, eyes puffy, and asks: "Where does it come from?"

 

Merely trying to start somewhere. 

 

And he needs some time to answer that simple question. From Grenoble? From Russia? 

From the mafia? 

 

Already he's dreading how, whatever answer he'll give her, to whatever question she'll ask, from now on, and however truthful he'll be when answering, it won't ever,  _ever_  be what she wants to hear.

 

None of what he can say now will make the situation better. All the answers he's got to give her will actually most definitely worsen it. 

Everything will sound terrible.

 

He's still standing a few feet away from her, almost by the fridge. 

 

"From ---" -he clears his throat, "from my boss."

 

He keeps from wincing. 

 

Ange was never anything else to him. There's nothing else he can say, and there's no better way to say it.

 

"It's not ---mine," he adds. "He lent it to me."

 

She doesn't react, to the point where he wonders if she's even listening to him. She looks like she's somewhere else. 

 

She must have heard him though, as after a few moments, she asks: "Your boss?"

 

She looks down at the gun on her lap. 

 

"Is your boss the chief of police?"

 

Again with the sarcasm. He'll counter it by being tone deaf. Or rather, he can't really be anything else right now. Obviously none of them is really in the mood to joke about it yet. 

 

"No, he's not."

 

She lets out a faint  _oh_.

 

"He..." he swallows.

She doesn't want to hear what she's about to hear, and that makes him very reluctant to talk, of course. But also, he actually doesn't know what Ange is exactly. What the word for it is. So, lamely, he settles for:

 

"He---owned the bar I worked in."

 

Once again, she doesn't react at all. She doesn't look at him. 

 

Never has the cicadas sounded more out of place than now. 

 

"I was his bartender," he murmurs. 

 

So far, he's told her nothing but the truth. 

 

"...a bartender with a gun?" She asks then, and though the question could have perfectly been sarcastic once more, it doesn't sound like it is, strangely. 

 

His throat is so tight, he doesn't know how he's able to get any word out. 

 

"No. I---it was given to me, to..." He pauses, when he really shouldn't. "--defend myself when I was delivering  _things_  in Marseille."

 

She closes her eyes, and rubs them, slowly. "Things?"

 

"Yes."

 

"What things?"

 

"I--I don't know."

 

She stiffens. 

 

"I, I mean that---" he tries to swallow, mouth dry: "I'm not sure." He searches for words, once more. "I think we've delivered guns at some point."

 

Her eyebrows go up. 

 

_More guns?_

 

He's kept quiet about what he was running from the whole time he's known her, and now that the situation is critical, he needs the right words right away, he needs to be concise, he needs to explain everything without lingering -so that she gets where he comes from and why he did what he did, and in that moment he understands that that's in no way possible. Even if it was, he would need her to believe him. 

 

And he's done a lot to lose her trust. 

 

His story, the whole thing, no matter how he tells it, sounds phony in his own head and to his own ears. 

 

She stares off into space her head resting in her hand. It really doesn't look like she'll talk at all. He almost doesn't catch the two words she says next. 

 

"...illegal activities."

 

His chest gets really tight then.

 

"I didn't know what I was getting into," he finally breathes. "I just wanted to take care of the bar, wait a few tables--"

 

Even he can tell how pathetic he sounds, so he stops there.

 

"How does that even happen?" She finally looks at him. "You sold guns without meaning to? ...you slipped?"

 

He clenches his jaw.

"I thought I---was doing someone a favor."

 

"By selling guns?"

 

"By driving a car to Marseille. It went downhill from there."

 

Then, he spends maybe five long minutes trying to tell her more, trying to keep control over the conversation and protect the image she has of him, stuttering at times -about how it happened, but it's confused, hurried, disorganized and to top it all, she's barely listening. 

 

It's discouraging, to say the least. He feels like he's drowning. 

In the same time, he has to refraine himself and not worry her unecessarily just because he's paranoid. 

 

"I was going to tell you, just not right away," he says at last. "...I wanted to make sure it was behind me first."

 

Her lips press together, he doesn't know why. 

 

"I'm trying to get away from that," he informs her, in case it wasn't clear to her. "I don't have the intention to ever do that again."

 

She doesn't look relieved.

 

He just now realizes, that him selling guns is maybe not at the core of the problem for her. 

 

Once more, the pace of her speech makes him feel like she's not right here with him. 

 

"You know... it isn't entirely your fault, because I was too afraid to ask---"

 

She hesitates, before getting up, putting the gun down on the table.

 

She's not going anywhere though. She just stands there, facing him, head down.

 

It doesn't sound like she's so sure of what she's saying. "...but was it my responsability to ask, or was it yours to tell me?"

 

Even though the tone is genuine, this is most definitely a rhetorical question. He stays quiet, trying to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

 

"I don't know you at all, I feel." She sounds sad, but the resent underneath is also there. It shows better when she speaks again. "...why did you even stay?"

 

"I like being around you."

 

"You do?" 

 

He almost flinches at her incredulity, and she's not even trying hurt his feelings. She actually doubts it. 

 

"Yes."

 

Her lips press together again. "...didn't you say you needed to hide?"

 

"Yes, but--"

 

"Didn't you stay here because you had nowhere to go?"

 

"So? ...It changed!"

 

She pauses, but he can tell what he's saying doesn't do much for her. 

"---it wasn't just because I let you?"

 

"At first, yes, but I was never planning on staying weeks here."

  

At some point, he makes the mistake to let the silence stretch for too long. No matter how disastrous the conversation goes, he doesn't expect to hear what he hears next. She says it so low, he hopes he's dreaming it.

 

"...maybe this time, you could leave my house, when I ask you to." 

 

His stomach drops. 

 

He doesn't handle that so well.

 

"You're crazy if you think I'll leave this house."

 

His voice doesn't waver and remains low, which is a feat because his throat is impossibly tight now. 

 

Her resent, in return, shows plainly this time. 

 

_"Still need to hide from your friends?"_

 

However truthful he is now, it sounds like he's lying.

The words are stuck in his throat for a moment before he can get them out.

 

"--I need  _you_." 

 

He's not rewarded for that effort.

 

"Right," she starts -he barely can hear her. Her voice is small. It looks like she trembles, but he might be imagining it.

 

It sounds like she's trying not to cry again. 

 

Maybe he's the one trembling. 

 

And her small voice is the worst contrast possible with how  _harsh_  her next words are.

 

"Don't expect me to tell you I need you back. I hardly know you." She's not looking at him, standing there.

"...and I'm depressed, I'd cling to anyone."

 

He takes slow, silent breaths.

 

"...anyone would do," he hears her breathe again.  

 

He's not even hurt about what she says -he doesn't believe it for one second. But the fact that she'd want to tell him that, hurts in itself.

 

"That's not true," he manages to say, aware of how unsure he sounds. 

 

Despite fearing she'll insist it is just to hurt him more, he still lets her know he doesn't buy it. 

 

She doesn't insist.

 

She actually doesn't say anything to that. She just leaves the kitchen this time, passing right past him. He doesn't move. Not sure if he should, not sure if he can. 

 

It's alright. It's alright.

This is not meant to end this way, she's going to her room, she's done it before. 

 

He flinches when he hears the door slam. 

 

 

Later on, he's on the couch. The vacuum cleaner at his feet.

 

He almost can't see anything, now. The night has fallen completely, and there are no stars tonight, no moon. It's rare but the weather is cloudy here too, sometimes. 

 

He's cooked dinner.

 

He's tried to keep himself busy. A difficult task when all he wants to do is be with her, and talk to her. 

 

But she won't talk to him. 

 

It'll be eleven soon. And she still hasn't gotten out of her room. 

 

When the night falls he hopes, that, like last time, she'll come out scowling, and sit across him to eat.  

 

He tells himself that she's just insecure, she's just hurt, she'll come around, she'll understand, she'll forgive, but she skips that first meal, and he knows she hasn't eaten anything at noon -and when he comes at her door to inform her that dinner is ready, she doesn't open, she doesn't speak.

 

He doesn't even hear her move inside, he doesn't even hear the bed creak.

 

It's truly as if he was talking to a door. 

 

And she doesn't come out. 

 

He doesn't eat either. 

 

Time goes by excruciatingly slow. All afternoon, all evening. Slow enough to think everything over until nothing makes sense anymore.

 

He starts wondering if it's truly that she's just hurt. 

 

If it's not rather that what she learned about him today doesn't make her hate him a little bit.

 

If he's not really just an intruder to her now, back to square one. Or a liar. A man who sells guns to gangs in Marseille. 

Would she really rather not eat, than be around him? See him, talk to him? 

 

Alone, in the silence of the house, he's starting to wonder if he hasn't fucked everything up beyond repair. 

 

His fists clench hard, his breath stutters. 

 

He needs to wait it out. Just wait it out, and ignore the pang in his chest. This won't go on forever, it's alright. 

 

At midnight, he's tired as if he'd ran a marathon, and he's mostly just sat down all day.

 

He's still waiting for her to get out, like a fucking idiot. 

 

In the dark, he lies down despite being unable to close an eye.

 

Hoping she'll come in the middle of the night. She's done that a few times too. 

 

Around two, _she does_. 

 

He holds his breath in the dark to better hear the sound of her bare feet on the tile. 

 

He hopes that she'll go on to the kitchen, get her plate and take it with her to eat it in her room. He needs a sign that things aren't that bad. 

 

She must know he's cooked her something. Or she could take some bread with her. 

 

She doesn't give him that. She uses the bathroom. 

 

Then goes straight back to her room, stomach empty. 

 

It's _hard_  telling himself she wants him to stay when she can't even eat something he's cooked.

 

He doesn't sleep at all, waiting for the morning to arrive. 

 

At first, it's too early, she would never get up that early. Soon, it's not early anymore.

She's still in her room. 

  

He calls her through the door, and she doesn't respond -or move at all. 

 

 _She's just hurt, insecure, she'll come around, she'll understand_  he repeats to himself like a mantra.

 

It takes a turn in his mind when she doesn't leave her room at noon either.

 

Now he truly feels like he's starving her. 

 

Is it a bad sign when someone prefers to go on a hunger strike rather than be around you?

 

He doesn't know what he expects when he approaches her door for the tenth time in twenty-four hours.

 

Probably not the sudden, smothering and painful heat inside. 

 

"Rey?"

 

He waits like an insane person.

 

Expecting a different result than he got the precedent times.

 

All of a sudden, it overflows. His throat is tight again, making it hard to breathe -and even harder to speak. 

 

"I ---cooked an omelette, and--" 

 

He stops there. His words are met with silence. He looks down, head tilted so he can hear better. 

 

A hot tear falls from his cheek this time.

 

He has not fucking clue where he's going with this sentence when he starts it. 

 

How he ends it almost takes him by surprise. The words threaten to stay stuck. 

 

But in the end, he gets them all out, one at a time. 

 

"---along with... other things. It's... it's all in the fridge."

 

He tries to think clearly about what she might need to know before he leaves.

 

It's difficult.

 

"I---there's a bike, next to the French doors. It's your size, I think." He clears his throat. 

 

He tells her the directions to the next village, then, the one he went to. 

 

Even though she's probably not listening.

 

He knows what he just said. He knows what he means.

 

For a few, very long minutes, though, he finds himself incapable of moving. Tears keep silently rolling down his face. He makes no sound. 

 

Waiting for her to change her mind. 

 

He doesn't hear a word.

He doesn't hear the faintest sound either.

 

His vision blurs again, even if his voice, he finds, doesn't waver. He's speaking so low, though, that he doubts she could hear him even if she cared at all. 

 

"I'm sorry we met the way we met."

 

 

 

He closes the front door behind him less than five minutes later. 

 

 

It was too good to be true anyway.

  
  


 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Needed me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmVihRtquSI)  
> ...happy new year? lol
> 
> Reminder that there'll be a HEA <3
> 
> Also, to anyone who doesn't know, in France the possession of guns is highly restricted. Unless it's to hunt, the average citizen possessing a gun is unheard of - and can I assume it's the same in the UK? 
> 
>  
> 
> [Here is the type of village Ben ends up in](https://www.google.fr/maps/@44.5696241,5.2761213,3a,75y,117.98h,93.09t/data=!3m6!1e1!3m4!1sVQjbeA5zCq8CpWNPZhLKcw!2e0!7i13312!8i6656)
> 
>  
> 
> Translations:  
> "Carrefour c'est de la merde", says the middle-aged woman to Ben: "Carrefour, it's shit"  
> "Ok, excellente journée à vous!" he tells her then. "Okay, and a good day to you!"


	24. A shot to the head and a shot to the heart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW/TW: depictions of several forms of suicidal ideations (see the end notes for more)
> 
> Thank you so so much for reading <3

  

 

Rey knows she's going to have a sunburn -on the right side of her face. She can feel it happening. 

 

The timid wind blows just so she doesn't feel the burn to the point of getting up, which is not doing her any favor. 

 

She wouldn't mind getting some help in the form of a burn to pull her out of her inertia.

 

Although if she's being honest, she'd probably just reposition herself.  

 

It's like she's weighing ten times her actual weight, her head the heaviest part of her, her cheek pressed in the grass. 

 

_Get up. Get up. Get up. Get. Up._

 

_Get up?_

 

_Get up. Get up. Getup. Getup._

 

Her chest fills with air very progressively, and she huffs it all out at once, loudly, her eyes still closed. 

 

_...get up, you stupid-insignificant-worthless-piece-of-shit, you trash of a human being-- GET UP. GET UP._

 

It's way nicer to be lying out here than inside, she thinks distantly.

 

She used to think the cicadas around here were being too loud, now she actually gets why people find them soothing. 

 

At least one good habit she's getting out of this.

 

How long has she been lying here? She can't even say. The sun has moved a lot, that she knows. She's been out of the shadow of the lime-tree for a while.

 

Okay:  _now_.

 _Now_  she's getting up. 

 

 _For what?_  snaps a voice inside her.  _...getting up for what?_

  

She grunts.

 

What's the alternative, she's going to lie in the grass until she dies of dehydratation, is that it? 

 

_\----why not? ---why not?_

 

There's always an edge to that voice at first, and then, the tone becomes genuine.

 

It always brings her to actually consider the question asked. A question she damn well know the answer to.

 

 _...why not? ...why not?_  

 

_What is there to protect? What will you get up for?_

 

...give up.

Give up.

Give up.

_Give up._

 

 _Give. Up._  

 

Rey slowly opens her eyes. After that much time under the sun, the whole world is blue for a few long seconds. 

 

...give up? 

 

\---get up. 

 

She rolls on her side.

Then huffs once more. 

 

Shit, that's a lot. She deserves a little rest. 

 

She curls into a ball and closes her eyes again. 

 

_Great. Well done, bitch._

 

"...fuck off," she mumbles to no one.  

 

She's able to get up a good half-hour later, her head pounding. Oh yeah, she's definitely sporting a sunburn.  

 

And indeed, when she gets into the bathroom, she gapes, eyes squinting in disbelief. 

 

 _Holy shit_ , it's worse than she thought. And it's just on one side of her face, too. 

 

Her tanned skin over her shoulders, arms and collarbone is a weird and rare sight. There aren't many occasions to tan in London. 

 

Here, she's been going out every day, or almost -and by getting out she means napping under the sun- for something like two months.

 

So she could actually pass for someone who's doing something with their life, if not for the oily hair and the empty expression. Someone who's enjoying life, who's not letting it slip by. 

 

Nice.

 

Should she take a shower? 

 

_...you took one last week, you dumb bitch, who do you think you are, a princess?_

 

She sighs loudly, eyes closing. 

 

Then, she crouches under the sink to see if she can find something to calm the throbbing behind her eyes. 

 

She's met with silence once she steps outside of the bathroom. Slowly, she scans the living-room.

 

Two plates are by the couch, along with an empty can of beans. On the way to the kitchen, there's a pair of panties on the floor -she doesn't remember how they got there.

 

From where she stands, she can see the crumbs along with what looks like sauce smeared on the counter of the kitchen, the empty cans she left there too, with three spoons she used and left on the closest surface. 

 

Flies are twirling above the sink -just a few, and she's suprised by that there aren't more. 

 

A sigh stays trapped in her chest. She closes her eyes again. 

 

Then covers her face with her hands for a full minute. Not moving, holding her breath ---before she lets her hands drop at her sides with a loud huff.

 

_Fucking hell._

 

She picks up the two plates she left on the ground by the couch. All the way to the sink, she tells herself that she'll wash them immediately. 

 

Once at the sink, however, she lowers them in it, and acts like  _she's never seen them before in her life, officer_ , walking away.

 

Not that it's about _him_.

Not that setting foot in that kitchen systematically reminds her of him more than any other room in this house, and that she hardly can stand to stay there for more than a minute.

 

She should know now that denial, and avoiding, and hiding don't help in any way.

 

Hiding the moka pot away is actually the first thing she does after finding that she doesn't have it in her to straight up throw it away. 

 

And immediately she gets to find out that it doesn't work. 

 

It'll be three months at the end of the week that he left, and she still thinks about him every day.

 

He's the first thing she thinks about when she wakes up, the last thing on her mind when she falls asleep. He pops up at the corner of every thoughts day in and day out, and shows up in her dreams too, as she's started to remember them despite that they're particurlarly plain and uneventful. He might the sole reason why she remembers them at all. 

 

Soon she understands that she'd really have to throw away the whole house to be able to check if getting rid of things she associates with him could be of any help. 

 

She'd have to throw away the broken bathroom door, throw away the stove, throw away all the dolls and their fucking bells, the arnica gel, the shower, even, the red book, the bike, the couch...

 

She sleeps on the couch instead -every night.

 

She thinks to herself as much as she needs to, that she's merely finding back her old habits, from before she met him, as she would rarely sleep in the bedroom before he occupied the couch. 

 

Again, denial isn't of any help.

 

She can _smell_ him there.

 

That's the reason why she starts sleeping there again -plain and simple. 

 

 _To this day_ , three months after he left, she thinks back to that morning and bitter tears instantly form in her eyes. What used to be in the first days _angry_ tears. 

 

_...why did she have to fucking clean?_

 

It wasn't her _place_ , and if she had stuck to the script, who knows what they would be doing right now?

 

Eating together. She'd be holding him, maybe.

 

Whoever is holding him now, it could have been her, if she hadn't been stupid to the point of suddenly wanting to clean up shit---

_\---shit that didn't need to be cleaned up in the first place--_

 

She feels her throat tightens, and her eyes are wet again.

 

She clenches her jaw, but doesn't fight it. It's over sooner if she lets it happen.

 

It's a normal part of her everyday life, now, crying over what happened that day. She's blasé about it really. She's like a sponge that needs to be pressed, it's just a chore, something to be done. _She doesn't fucking care._

 

Her mind keeps tripping over the same thoughts again and again, on a loop, obsessing over what can't be undone ad nauseam, until she fucking swears _she's had enough_ and _she's so done_ and _she'd like some rest now_ , _some actual rest, she'd like to be at peace, she needs  peace, she needs----_

 

She inhales deeply, exhales deeply. 

 

Where is he now? Who is he with, she thinks distantly.

 

Not here, not with her. 

 

_She had to fucking clean. She had to vacuum that fucking couch._

 

That's what you get for making an effort. It was such a fragile balance, relying exclusively on her needing him and him taking care of her -nothing less, nothing more.

 

All of it shattered in a matter of seconds, on the sight of one single object. 

 

Sure, a gun is foreign to her, and she struggles to understand how it can even be real. She thought it only existed in movies. 

 

When her eyes fall on it for the first time, that morning, she freezes, and remains still for a long time, struggling to process that it can exist in the same reality as hers.

 

More importantly, that it exists in relation to  _Ben_. 

 

 _Ben_  and a  _gun_  don't go together. They don't. 

 

Ben cooks, cleans, reads, washes her, kisses her, holds her to sleep --he doesn't hold  _guns_. He doesn't fire  _guns_. 

 

He's not the type to own a gun, or to keep a gun. It doesn't make sense, no matter how long she stares at it.

 

She closes her eyes tight, then.

 

Knowing that when she'll open them, the gun will still be there.

 

She can't unsee it, can't ignore it, can't put it back in the couch. It's too late -the damage is done. 

 

Just like that, all is let loose. 

 

She thinks back to each and every moment they had, each conversation, everything he did for her, and she doesn't know what anything means anymore, why he stayed with her when she was so difficult to be around, what his motivations were all this time. Two minutes before this moment she could pretend like he was here for  _her_ , and only her.  

 

She's furious at herself. Her self-loathing skyrockets, and she's unable to stop it.

All her new found energy is gone in an instant. 

 

Later on, locked in the bedroom and lying on the bed, a faint remnant of self-awareness lets her see that if she hadn't been sick, maybe her reaction would have been different.

 

Being aware of that doesn't render her capable of feeling differently then she does, though. 

 

At this point, she's watching it happen, not moving at all, letting her whole body turn into stone.

 

She waits to be able to face him, trust him. But no progress is made, no matter how many hours are spent in the dark and in the silence. 

 

At times, she tries to see how long she can hold her breath. 

 

Especially when he comes knocking at the door. 

 

Holding her breath sometimes helps her holding back tears, too. 

 

It's not even a matter of punishing him. Of doing the silence treatment. 

 

She's unable to utter a syllabe, unable to move. 

 

He's insistant. 

But she's sure he'll give up eventually. 

 

And he does.

 

She lies there, on the bed, for she doesn't know how long after she heard him leave. 

 

She's perfectly empty inside, drained. She doesn't feel anything. 

 

When she gets back into her own body, little by little, reality starts to sink in all over again. She found a gun. 

As a result, he's gone. 

 

She spends a whole other day in the bedroom, afraid to go into the living-room like it's a murder scene. 

 

When she does, though, what she sees is way worse. 

 

She winces, her chest too tight to breathe, seeing that he put everything back where it belongs. The seats of the couch, the vacuum cleaner have been picked up and put back where they're supposed to be. On the counter, new cans of food have been lined up for her to find right away, and she finds two tupperware boxes full with food in the fridge. 

 

There's evidence everywhere that he was here. Only a moment ago, it feels like. 

 

Her eyes fall on the gun soon after. 

 

It's still at the center of the table, right where she left it.

 

Right there and then, she has no idea why he didn't take it with him, and three months later, she still has no idea why.

 

Is it to prove something to her? That he's a good man, that he won't use it again?

Is it that he doesn't need it, and prefered to leave it to a woman living by herself? 

 

Those reasonings make room for delusion pretty quickly. 

 

_Is it that he'll come back?_

 

In those moments, it hits her hard that she doesn't know where he went, doesn't have a number to call,  _doesn't know his full name_. And that all he knows of her, really, is her adress. 

 

She might just stay in this house forever in the vain hope that he'll come back. 

 

But days, weeks, months pass.

 

And he doesn't come back. 

 

She dreams a couple of times that he does.

 

He's always going around the house, again and again, trying to find a way to get in. He first knocks against her bedroom window, but there are bars there, so he can't get in even if she opens them. The front door is locked, and she's searching the whole house for the keys to open it, panicked, but she can't find them. 

 

He soon appears behind the French doors. There are bells around the handle, and that keeps them both from actioning it, for some reason.

 

He looks at her, knocking on the glass, and he's saying something to her, but she can't hear although she knows it's about the key, the one that will open the front door.

 

She stutters that she can't find it, and that she can't hear him, and he's gesturing to her to calm down -to breathe.

She tries to.

 

He's repeating something, again and again. She squints her eyes, trying her best to focus, listening closely.

 

Until finally, she hears it.

 

_"...the couch, Rey. Check the couch."_

 

She wakes up then, rigid, her heart pounding. 

 

She wakes up on that fucking couch. 

 

 

The first days, she doesn't get anywhere near the gun.

 

She eyes it with all the hatred she can muster.

 

The gun's ruined everything.

 

Like a wary animal she circles it but never gets close, mentally hissing at it, until whatever fire she has in her becomes weaker and weaker by the day and all that's left inside her chest is a lukewarm, bland and slow energy that makes it hard for her to walk, wake up, think and breathe. 

 

She gets used to have it gather dust on the table, and after two weeks or so, she starts flipping it off.

A name is given to it. 

 

"Fuck off, Gary."

 

"Eat  _shit_ , Gary."

 

It doesn't make her feel better. 

 

Soon enough, sooner than she'd have thought, she takes it in her hands.

 

She sits at the table, and looks at it. It didn't take her long to feel nothing at its sight. She examines it, looks at it up close, turns it in her hands, feels its weight. 

 

Tries to guess what part is what.

Every time for a bit longer, every time with a bit more confidence. 

 

Holding the grip, she notices her thumb reaches a small part that slides up. 

She can only guess that's the safety, as nothing happens aside from a click.

 

She can't be sure she put it on or took it off. 

 

Staring at the gun, almost jaw-slacked, breathing slowly, she toys with it.

 

The only way to check would be to pull the trigger once the hammer's down. 

She never does. 

 

After two months spent alone, however, she does put the muzzle to her heart. 

 

She took the gun with her. It's around noon, and she's sitting under the lime-tree. 

The sun is shining strong. It's still summer. 

 

The way she's imagined what it would feel like to fall from a rooftop, she imagines what firing the gun would sound like, how the sound would pierce her a few milliseconds before the bullet would.

 

She wonders if it would hurt -if she would have the time to hurt before dying, if she would have the time to know that she's dying. 

 

She doesn't want to kill herself. 

 

She just feels nothing, or so little that she brings the gun to her head, to see what it feels like against her temple too.

 

If she could experience both, she'd be curious to know how a shot to the head and a shot to the heart compare, and how they're different.  

 

She pulls the hammer down, hearing and feeling it click. 

 

Her index is nowhere near the trigger. 

 

Slowly, swallowing hard, she brings the gun back to her heart. It's now beating furiously. 

 

She must be capable of feeling something after all. 

 

If she were to pull the trigger now, it'd be a sort of russian roulette. She'd have a fifty percent chance to survive. 

 

Her legs go numb at the thought. 

 

She shuts her eyes hard.

 

Finding that her hand is shaking, she ends up turning the gun toward the field ahead of her.

 

And presses the trigger. 

 

There's a loud clicking sound, that shoots a vicious current along her arm.

 

Nothing else happens.

 

She deflates, blinking, her chest heaving. 

 

So the safety was off... but the gun still hasn't fired?

 

She looks at it from up close again, frowning, breathing heavily. 

There's a sort of button on the side, lower than the safety, and she presses it. 

 

Another part slides right out of the grip. 

The part where the bullets are supposed to be. 

 

She's sure Ben told her it was loaded, the day she took it in her hand in front of him.  _Watch out, it's loaded._

 

But she's looking at it then. 

 

It's empty. 

 

She lets herself slump back against the tree, exhaling sharply through her nose, closing her eyes. 

 

He took the bullets with him. 

 

That day, she uses the bike for the first time. 

 

She leaves the property -for the first time since she arrived here six months ago. 

 

She tries to be attentive to what road she's taking, although her ability to focus is poor, and her ability to care if she gets lost even poorer. 

 

The countryside is beautiful -almost beautiful enough to have her cry like the emotional bitch that she is. 

 

The sun on her shoulders, the wind in her hair, have her repeatedly sighing. 

 

It doesn't feel like relief, but close. 

 

She finds a village after pedaling for a whole hour. She's not sure at all that that's the nearest village. 

 

All she cares about is that it's a village big enough to have a  _Casino_ , a kind of convenience store. 

A  _Casino_  so small that it's essentially the equivalent of a corner shop. 

 

She still finds a lot that she needs there.

 

She was about to run out of toothpaste for instance. 

 

So she buys that. 

 

And a bag of chips. 

And a bag of gummy bears. 

And a can of white beer. 

 

 

After that day, she actually knows where to go find food, and how to get there. 

 

It's a start.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [There’s a voice I always trust / Its friendly helping hand tells me leave, I must / Rather chase a gentle breeze / Set my thoughts by taller trees / Cause I can’t stay forever / Cause I can't stay forever / By my window](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TNsSBhl_2LI)
> 
>  
> 
> CW/TW:  
> " The range of suicidal ideation varies greatly from fleeting thoughts, to extensive thoughts, to detailed planning, role playing (e.g., standing on a chair with a noose), and incomplete attempts, which may be deliberately constructed not to be completed or discovered, or may be fully intended to result in death, but the individual survives. "


	25. The road isn't flat

 

In the span of a month, she leaves the house three times total to go to  _Casino_. 

 

The same lanky, brown skinned boy greets her everytime -well,  _greets_...  _nods,_  once, when she passes the automatic doors, without taking his eyes off his phone's screen. Coupé-décalé songs and raï music play from it in the silence of the small store.

 

The festive beats coming out of the earpiece set a strange atmosphere in the deserted aisles. 

 

Makes her feel like she's not quite in the real world. 

 

That,  _and_  probably the fact that the first time she enters that store, she hasn't talked to or  _seen_  anyone in  _two goddamn fucking months_.

 

The smells she catches, the sounds she hears, and the eyes she feels on her, even if briefly, when she rides her bike in the village, disorient her, unsettle her ---make her  _sweat_. 

She'd like to move around unseen and unbothered by the outside world. 

 

So naturally she's grateful that the cashier barely acknowledges her the first two times she goes there. She doesn't feel like talking -the indifference is welcomed. 

 

She's almost lost all sense of what's proper to do and not to do while  _proceeding to check out._ She can't imagine what it'd be like to have an actual conversation or prolonged eye contact with someone. 

 

She smiles at him, and she's sure she must look terrifying. There's not a chance in hell that it reaches her eyes. 

 

The second time she goes to the store, almost two weeks later, it's worst. Her palms are sweaty like never before.

 

Essentially, the more time she spends isolated, the more difficult it is for her to face another human being -the more difficult it is to face another human being, the more she wants to remain isolated.

Classic. 

 

The boy doesn't speak English, thankfully. No one does around here. 

 

The village is so small, though, that the people she meets in the streets when she meets any say  _Bonjour_  to her when they wouldn't bother in a bigger town.

 

She mumbles or blurts out awkward  _bonjours_  in return, picking up the pace to get back on her bike and  _get the fuck out of there_  because she can hardly handle exchanging a single word with a stranger. 

 

She can't buy too many things: her medium sized backpack is all she has to carry everything on her way back. And the roads aren't flat, not at all. 

 

Because the sun is ruthless here, the weather suffocating after nine in the morning, and because of her heavy backpack on her shoulders  _and_  because she hasn't done anything even remotely qualifying as a physical exercise since she was in highschool, when she gets back home from  _Casino_ , her shoulders, her thighs, her hips and her face are on fire.

 

She'd be tempted to say that it feels like she's on  _literal fire_ , and the first two times she's back from buying groceries she runs in the shower without thinking twice. 

Good news. 

 

If she had any choice, she wouldn't go to that Casino more than twice a year.

 

Of course, she waits until she doesn't have a single thing to eat in the entire house to go back there. 

 

In her defense, she needs to bike for an hour to get there.

 

One hour  _to_  and one hour  _from_  the Casino. So it would require a lot of willpower even if she  _wasn't_ thinking about killing herself for thirty minutes straight first thing every morning. 

 

She's isn't helped by her circumstances. 

 

There must be a village that's closer though. 

 

Ironically, she can find in her the will to bike for hours but not to talk to someone and ask if there really  _is_ a village that's closer to her house.

 

Until she  _has_  to ask someone that, because the third time she goes to  _Casino_ , the boy is closing it. 

 

It's half past noon.

 

"Hey, hey,  _heyheyheyhey_ \--" she calls out as she sees him rolling the metallic curtain down, close to fall from her bike by braking too abruptly.

 

He's crouching down, about to lock it, and looks at her. 

 

"What, wha-- it's the middle of the day, you're closing?" she asks, pointing at the curtain in the hope he'll understand her bafflement.

 

He quirks an eyebrow. He doesn't understand. 

 

So she joins her fingers together and brings them to her mouth: "I need to eat--" -she stops, shaking her head, and rather gesture at the curtain as if to ask him to reopen it:

 

"Please, I only need five minutes?" 

 

He blinks at that.

_"On est fermé. On ferme entre midi et deux, et on rouvre à quinze heures trente."_

 

When she squints her eyes, clueless, he sighs loudly and stands up to show her the opening hours on the wall next to the metallic curtain.

 

Oh. She didn't notice. 

 

_They close between noon and three?_

 

What the fuck is she going to do for  _three fucking hours_  in a village where there's so obviously nothing to do? 

 

Not that she has the drive or need to do anything aside from eating.

 

She'd just like to do nothing in the privacy of her own home,  _she's not being difficult._

 

She must be making quite the face, because he seems to soften.

 

With a wave of his hand, he asks her to follow him. 

 

She frowns, hesitating, because he doesn't try to tell her where he's taking her.

 

But he doesn't wait for her to make a decision either, and starts walking --so hesitating is quickly not an option anymore. 

She follows him.

 

He's not in a hurry. She doesn't have anything better to do so she doesn't say anything, and walks next to her bike in silence. 

 

They take very narrow streets, meeting a few cats on their way. Her stomach growls at the sounds of people cooking and the smells she gets to taste on her tongue while walking by several opened windows. Fuck, she's hungry. 

 

He takes her to what looks like the end of the village, not quite the side where she comes from, and points at what must be the name of another village, there on a sign by the road. 

 

_Saint-Nazaire-le-Désert, 20._

 

20.

 

_20??_

 

Twenty kilometers??

Shit. That sounds like a lot. What's going on in Saint-Nazaire-le-Désert that's so cool? 

 

Holy shit. She has no idea how long she'll have to ride her bike to get there.

 

"Um... okay?" she mutters, frowning. 

 

Wordlessly, he joins the fingers of one hand together, like she did earlier -bringing them to his mouth, as if to eat.

 

Then, he points at the sign again. 

 

_"Si vous voulez faire des courses, c'est là-bas qu'il faut aller. Je connais pas d'autre endroits."_

 

\---okay, she thinks she gets the idea.

 

She looks up at the sign, and sighs.  _Fuck_. 

 

He's waiting expectantly. 

 

" _Merci_ ," she tries, with a constipated smile. 

 

" _De rien_ ," he lazily shrugs -before finally walking away. 

 

She gets on her bike. What's a small detour, right? 

 

It's not as if she's got a busy schedule, she thinks as she starts pedaling away in earnest.

 

Soon though, she's ecstatic to find out that it takes near an hour and a half to get there. 

 

_And the road isn't flat._

 

One good thing is she absolutely has no energy left whatsoever to rage against her own stupidity when she comes across a sign that indicates that  _Rochefourchat_ , her own village, is only  _five_  kilometers away from this one. 

 

St-Nazaire-le-Désert was the closest village from her house all along. 

 

She sighs, panting, and clenches her jaw, hair wet against her burning cheeks and her forehead. 

 

She gets down from her bike as soon as she enters  _St Nazaire_ , even if no store is in sight yet, because her legs can't take it anymore. She barely feels them. Her knees are weak, wobbly, and she's never been that hot before in her entire life. 

 

She just knows even without checking that her cotton dress must be visibly drenched in sweat, under her arms and in her back. She can't give any fuck at this point, though. 

 

If she doesn't find a store, or if the store is closed, or whatever the fuck, she might decide there and then to end her life for good this time. No joke.

 

What a shitty day.

 

She walks with her bike next to her, her empty backpack on her shoulders, and she finds the church, the post-office, the city hall, a sort of pub, two restaurants, but no store for the first ten minutes of walking.  _Really?_  

 

God --will she have to  _ask someone?_

 

No she won't. 

 

Between a bakery and what might be a Bed and Breakfast, at last, she reads  _Epicerie &Alimentation._ 

 

So there it is. It clearly has less stocks than Casino. The shop is a shoebox really.

 

She sighs loudly, her mouth dry. 

Whatever.

 

She leans her bike against the fountain that's twenty meters from it maybe --and soon steps inside. 

 

The prices are handwritten on yellow neon tags pinned on the shelves everywhere.

Bottles of alcohol, cans, jams are neatly aligned all around -products that take years to expire, essentially. Nothing fresh, no dairy products, aside from a few eggs near the cash register that must come from a farm nearby, given their grey, neutral boxes and how expiration dates have been written on them with a sharpie.

 

The obscurity, psychologically speaking, is welcomed, given the heat. There's no light on inside, and the front windows aren't too big. It's rather dark, and Rey's grateful for that.

 

No AC, no fan, but a very light breeze comes from behind a beaded curtain at the back of the store, behind the two aisles on the way there.

It seems that a bit of light from outside comes from behind it too, leading Rey to think there must be a door opened on a backyard or something there, that allows the air to circulate a bit. 

 

She grimaces when she sees cans of  _cassoulet_  and  _couscous_ , as that kind of rich preparations in cans are rarely a blessing, but she takes them anyway. She oughts to buy food that require the minimum effort from her.

 

 _There you go_ , she mentally congratulates herself, picking a can up from a shelf.  _Look at me, I'm living the life._  

 

Soon, she's carrying something like five cans in her arms, holding them against her chest while she still searches for more. 

 

She crouches down behind one of the shelves, frowning in concentration, surveying her best options as if she wouldn't be the kind to shove just about anything down her throat.

 

She hears the beaded curtain move, and someone dragging their feet on the tile. 

 

She half expects the boy from  _Casino_  to show up. When she stands up and goes around the shelves, she sees that,  _bummer_ , it's not him. 

 

Sitting behind the cash register with the most bored expression on her face is a middle aged brown skinned woman who's wearing a blue and green hijab. She's looking down at some crosswords.  

 

Rey reluctantly approaches her with a blasé expression of her own to put the cans down on the counter -just to free her arms for now.  The woman barely reacts with a  _B'jour_.

Turning around to go get more cans, Rey mumbles a faint  _I'm not done_  in return that goes unheard.

 

She goes behind the shelves a second time, and crouches down again. Hesitating between food she doesn't feel like eating because reasons and food she doesn't feel like eating for other reasons. 

 

She has to think about her way back to the house and not take too much or her shouldersad her back will pay the price carrying everything. 

 

It's on that thought that she feels a presence on her right, at the end of the aisle.

 

She turns her head: two feet firmly planted in two pointy slippers are facing her. 

 

Looking up, she finds the middle-aged woman staring down at her with an intent look on her face.

 

Rey's first impulse is to look away and bring her attention back on the cans in front of her, but she's having palpitations just feeling the weight of that woman's eyes on her.

 

When she furtively glances back she sees them go over her face, her dress, her hair.

 

Just like that she's self conscious about how she looks, what state she's in -meaning more than she already was.

 

This time, Rey is not imagining or exaggerating anything. Paranoïa or not, this woman  _is_  insistently glaring at her and she doesn't know why.

Does she look like the type to steal something or...?  _What is it?_

 

" _Bonjour_?" Rey finally groans.

 

The woman stares some more, just a few seconds, enough to have Rey question her sanity, until she finally breaks the silence: 

 

_"Je peux vous aider? --vous cherchez quelque chose en particulier?"_

 

She doesn't sound aggressive or even annoyed. She's just observing Rey in a pointed way, more focused than necessary, waiting for her response.

 

Whatever she asked, Rey senses that it's important, that her answer would have been decisive in some way.

 

Unfortunately for that French woman, Rey doesn't speak French. 

 

"Sorry, I only speak English, lady--" she informs her, not sounding sorry at all.

 

It should bring the interaction to an immediate end, but right as she says those words, the woman stiffens, face straight, and once again, Rey has to wonder if she's just imagining it.

 

More importantly, Rey is still being stared at, the scrutiny exacerbating her impatience and discomfort. 

"...yes? Anything else?" 

 

Before Rey can huff another word, the woman turns around and leaves her there.

 

Rey cranes her neck to look between the cans and sees the woman disappear behind the beaded curtain.

 

She exhales sharply, and brings her attention back on the food in front of her, grabbing a can a  _touch_  too aggressively.

 

Just as she's about to grab another one, though, she hears the woman yell something from the back of the shop, her voice muffled by several walls between them it seems, way past the curtain. 

 

It's yelled it in French, so Rey doesn't know what it's about, although she still tenses at the sound. 

Her eyes don't leave the cans then, though. 

 

They do when she hears a booming  _De quoi?!_  in response, this voice coming from even farer. 

 

She was hunched forward, chin almost on her knee, and suddenly her spine straightens, her eyes widen. 

 

Her heart immediately picks up the pace. She remains still, listening.

 

Is this something she'll have to deal with, now? 

 

Standing to attention, her heart pounding, every time she hears a voice that resembles his? 

 

That's a voice that resembles his.  _That's a voice that sounds like his_. That's---

 

Her grip tightens around the can, and she slowly lowers her head to be able to see the beaded curtain between the cans on the self. 

 

Absolute silence. 

 

She stands up.

Her legs aren't worth anything anymore. She's not sure it has anything to do with how long she's been pedaling this time. 

 

Her eyes are level with the tops of the cans -she's hidden, behind the shelves, eyes fixed on the curtain, barely daring to breathe. 

 

Distinct, slow, hesitating footsteps are getting closer. 

 

She just knows, then---way before that curtain reopens, way before she sees anything other than its pearls, she knows, she just  _knows_ who's about to show up.

 

And her ears are buzzing, her face is going numb.

 

Some part of her must also believe that  _it's not possible_ , though, otherwise why would she be surprised at all, when she gets confirmation that she heard right, that she guessed right?

 

The pearls shake softly when a hand very carefully parts the curtain in the middle. 

 

Peering through the small gap between two cans, she sees the left side of a chest first, as the man it belongs to takes one quiet step in the room and stops there, right in front of the curtain, his back to it.

 

Blood beating in her ears, she silently adjusts her height by bending her knees a bit.  

 

Enough to see a face. 

 

 

Ben's face.

 

She watches, seemingly not able to breathe at all anymore, as he stands there arms at his sides and doesn't make another move, his eyes finding the cans she left on the counter of the cash register. 

 

She's hyper aware of the smallest movements she makes. Of the very light wind passing through, of the distant chant of the cicadas.

 

The silence in the shop. 

 

He's less pale than he was three months ago. His cheeks are slightly less full too. 

 

Face blank, slowly breathing in and out, his eyes remain on the counter for a moment. She doesn't process the thought clearly in her mind yet, but she's unable to face him. She feels paralyzed.

 

_It's alright. Breathe._

 

She presses her lips together in an effort to remain perfectly still and silent, watching as his eyes slowly go up, and up, toward the ceiling above the cash register. She doesn't know why.

 

He still doesn't move, just keeps his eyes fixed there, a timid crease forming on his forehead.  

 

She sees his adam's apple bob as he swallows, eyes still up. From where she stands, she can hear a faint exhale from him, that makes something click in her for some reason.

 

Her face burning, careful not to make a sound, she very slowly takes a step back. 

 

Enough to be able to see from behind the shelves what's above the cash register, fixed high on the wall near the ceiling. 

 

The air leaves her lungs at once when she sees herself in black and white on the screen there, filmed from above.

The image isn't high definition at all.

But anyone could recognize her. 

 

She bolts.

 

Out of her pseudo hiding place and into the street, she runs, adrenaline shooting through her legs and her chest as she hears the woman's voice behind her.

 

Apparently she came back in time to see Rey leave, and to follow her outside. 

 

"Hé, stop!... Mademoiselle!! ---Hého!!" She yells -but Rey doesn't turn around or stop, she just runs to her bike. 

 

She freezes right when she's about to grab the handlebar, realizing that she still has a can in her hand. 

 

Panicked, she throws it at the woman's feet, unable to even look at her -then gets on the bike, hands shaking, pushing on the ball of her feet to leave as fast as she can. 

 

_It's alright, it's okay, it's fine, just a bit of panic, that's it, it's okay---_

 

The way back to the house is a complete blur.

 

Too many thoughts at once, too many emotions rushing in, trees and fields a mess of greens on each sides of the road. She doesn't know how she makes it there.

 

_It's alright. It's alright. It's alright. It's fine._

 

The second she's back home, panting from the effort and her mental agitation alike, she goes head first into the bed and leaves her body there, her mind instantly turning the lights off as an emergency measure against the incoherent stream of hurtful hopes and cynical jabs that keep on assaulting her numb self.

 

She  _sleeps_ , or enters a coma, one of the two -postponing for later the rest of her inevitable spiraling.

 

When she wakes up, a few hours later, she has to actively think about whether or not this was all actually a dream. 

 

Sitting up on the bed, she shuts her eyes hard when she remembers her day. 

 

She's tempted to go back to sleep right away. 

 

Her heart is pounding just as if she was there all over again. 

 

Standing a few meters away from him. 

 

Her throat tightens and she breathes in, then out. Slowly.

 

She walks into the living-room, and she doesn't know why, because she's not about to do anything, productive or not. Maybe her body was offended that she went to sleep on the bed instead of the couch, and that's the only reason why she woke up.

  

She doesn't go to the couch though, not right away. 

 

She stops there, in the middle of the room.

 

 

There are two blue plastic bags on the other side of the French doors.

 

 

Both full of the cans she left earlier on the counter. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I make mistakes but they're safely behind me / Now I can run free / The only true love I have ever known / Into yours my life has been thrown](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mcwbCAJ1UWM)  
> The cashier tells Rey: "We're closed. We'll open again at three thirty."  
> Then later: "If you want to buy groceries, you have to go there. I don't know about any other place."
> 
> The woman from the Epicerie &Alimentation asks Rey: "Can I help you? --are you looking for something in particular?"
> 
> Next chapter will be from Ben's POV =)
> 
> Plein de bisous <3<3<3
> 
>  
> 
> [Bonus song, Habibi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-RkfbFixcfk)


	26. A window-shaped screen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The wait for this chapter was unusual; I hope my health is stabilizing, so we can be back to posting regularly. 
> 
> The comments you left mean everything to me. Thank you so so much for reading.

 

 

"Bonjour."

 

Ben startles. He hadn't realized his eyes were closed.

 

The woman, the one who wears a hijab, is standing in the doorway of her store, her hands on her hips and a scowl on her face.

Not the first time she glares at him, so he's not surprised -however, he'd almost think he's imagined her talking to him, because she sure hasn't bothered adressing him directly the whole week she's been seeing him sitting there in the street, his back against the wall of the house right across her store. 

 

His legs are stiff after three hours spent sitting there, so he shifts a bit with a wince, and clears his throat.

"...Bonjour."

 

"Can I help you?" she asks right away with a tone that clearly indicates she's in fact clearly not trying to help him. 

 

He knows she wants to find out why he's been sitting in her very quiet, very deserted street, and for how long he plans on doing it. 

 

Two questions he doesn't know the answer of. 

 

He's been trying to make himself as small and as discreet as possible. Keeping to himself, not bothering anyone, just sitting on the bench near the fountain or here directly on the ground depending on the position of the sun because his pale skin can't handle it for more than five minutes.

 

Obviously, though, those precautions aren't enough to counter how suspicious his behavior must be perceived -outside of the fact that he doesn't really have the type of physique that can easily go unnoticed.

Who sits for hours on end on the sidewalk? If they're not homeless, that is, and anyone can see that Ben isn't.

 

He just wants to make sure he's  _there_.

From the moment the store opens, to the moment it closes. 

 

He wants to make sure he'll be found, if someone came looking for him. 

 

At that point, it's been a week since he's left the house. 

 

_Can I help you?_

 

"No, not really," he says after actually thinking about it, despite being aware that she didn't mean it. His voice is barely audible. He clears his throat again, and hesitates. "...euh---merci quand même."

 

She gives him a pointed stare. He squirms, uncomfortable. 

She returns inside her store. 

  

In time, he'll learn that asking people if they need help is the number one sign Zineb has beef with someone. 

 

When she believes she can help people, she just helps them -she doesn't offer her help, she gives it. 

 

If she asks, she really means that she wants you to fuck off. 

 

"Where are you staying?" she asks him two days later. 

 

No  _bonjour_ , no nothing this time. Already the interaction feels much more sincere. She even crossed the street to him. He's looking up at her from his bench.

Every time he looks at her he just feels hotter. She's wearing a jilbab that covers her entirely, but she doesn't seem to suffer from the heat.  _How?_  

He notices she has some henna on her hands, beautiful curled over her fingers, and he wonders if she did that herself. 

She must have. It seems she's as alone as him. 

 

He clears his throat again after hours spent in silence like a monk. "At the hostel near the church."

 

"You have that kind of money?"

 

He doesn't know what she means by that. The price of the room he's staying in is alright.

 

He should tell her that he doesn't care if he saves money anymore. He doesn't care much about most things.

Most things. 

 

He inhales deeply. 

"...why?"

 

"I have a bedroom upstairs," she tells him without hesitation, a jerk of her head bringing his attention on the store. "I'll let you rent it for half the money you give them."

 

The luminosity is blinding. He squints his eyes at the building behind her, looking up at the second floor. 

 

"Are those the room's windows?" He asks, gesturing at the windows facing the street. 

 

She nods. "The one on the right, yes." 

 

He sighs. 

"Then sure."

 

"It's not declared," she warns him. 

 

He snorts. "I don't care."

 

That's how it goes with Zineb. It's either all or nothing.

 

She wants him gone on her first impression of him, and on the second, she takes him in. There's no in between. 

 

The very first day he stays in her house, she knocks on his door and opens it before he allows her to, saying that she has  _too much to eat._

She pratically throws at him the plate of tagine she has in her hand, like she's mad at herself for her hospitality.  

 

At this point, it's been several days that he's hardly been able to swallow anything, so he stammers that he's not hungry.

 

She makes him regret saying that with a single glare.

 

He surrenders right away.

"I'll be fine I guess. Merci."

 

Looking at him sideways while leaving, she mutters something in arab he's glad he can't understand.

 

The next morning, he brings her plate back. "That was really good. Thank you."

 

She takes his plate without a word and without even looking at him, and shoves another one in his hand. Some algerian pastries. "I made too many, can't eat everything" she says, not even bothering to make her lie believable. 

 

He stammers again: "Euh, no, I ---really, I'm good, but thank---"

 

She cuts him off by snatching the plate back, opening the cupboard under the sink with more force than necessary -where the trash is. 

 

 _"Should I throw everything away then?"_ She threatens, her hand ready to push everything down in the bin.

 

He blinks, at a loss for words.

 

She's actually pissed. What the fuck has he done? 

 

"...no?"

 

"Oh, so you'll eat it?"

 

He narrows his eyes. "I---"

 

"Okay, good," she concludes, shoving the plate back in his hand -and leaving the kitchen. 

 

He wisely stops refusing said plate after that morning. 

 

She stops using the excuse of having prepared too much food after a week or so, wordlessly giving him his plate.

 

Consequently, they soon start having their meals together, downstairs, in her kitchen. And he wouldn't even be able to say how it happened. 

 

He tries to repay her a bit by doing the dishes, but that's a lost battle nine times out of ten.

 

She pushes him out of her kitchen without caring to be tacteful. 

" _Dégage_ , Benjamin."

 

Since she hates it when he tries to take care of her home one way or the other, she asks him _if he needs help_  a lot.

 

Like when Ben reaches up for the pan on the higher shelf in her kitchen, thinking she's busy gardening in her backyard. 

 

_"Need help?"_

 

He freezes, his hand in the air, and turns his head to her. "Euh, non--non merci?"

 

"Why do you need that pan?"

 

"You said we would cook samsas today."

 

"Did I say you could put your hands where they don't belong?"

 

\---or when he ties the tomatoes she's growing in the backyard to the treillis. She sticks her head out of her bedroom's window on the second floor. 

_"Need my help?"_

He stills, and closes his eyes, sighing. 

Then lets go of the tomatoe branch. "No," he mumbles, standing up and walking back to the house.

 

Or again that one time when he was certain she was praying in her bedroom. 

 

She unplugs the vaccum cleaner he's using in the living-room. 

"Can I help you, by chance?"

 

It's not that Zineb loves the domestic work. She huffs more than he can count.

 

She just likes things to be done  _a certain way -_ and no other way.

 

He knows she'd like him staying in one corner of the house like a plant and just take the water she gives him. 

 

It's not in his habits to not be in charge of a chore, to not to be useful. 

 

She forces him to let go, and he doesn't terribly like that.

 

He spends most of his time at his window, watching the street, and when the store is closed, he'd appreciate to have something to busy his mind.

 

The smallest city Ben has lived in is the one he also grew up in, and it counted a hundred thousand inhabitants. Throughout the years, he only lives in relatively big cities, as big as they come in France, because that's where he has the most chances to find a job. 

 

Literally no other criteria is taken into account, from age sixteen to thirty-one. 

 

For the first time in his life, finding a job isn't the reason Ben stops somewhere and stays. 

 

St-Nazaire le Désert roughly counts two-hundred inhabitants. 

 

_Two hundred._

 

There's no job to get here, even during the summer. 

Very few tourists pass by. There's no mall of any kind, no shop, no cinema, no school. Everyone knows everyone. 

 

And everybody knows about everything happening in the village before the day is over. 

 

Living in a village so small in like living in a real life Truman show. The same people take this street at the same hours for the same reasons every day. 

The postman, of course, then the lady who always has a cigarillo in her mouth with her bag of groceries and her oversized jeans, then another lady with flowers on her dress who walks three fox-hounds.

He sees the same customers at the store too. Mainly, people buy the artisanal beers, and the eggs Zineb's chickens lay in her backyard. 

 

He hopes this situation means that if  _someone_  were to come and disturb that routine, he would be made aware of it. 

 

Every time he feels like he's being a complete idiot, and that he's waiting for nothing, he tries to remind himself of the logic that kept him from really leaving that day she asked him to, and then every day after that. 

 

This is the nearest village to Rey's house.   

And Zineb's store is the only store selling food in the village.

 

So Ben waits. 

 

He waits at his window.

 

Trying his best to imagine he has a rendez-vous, while knowing he really doesn't. 

 

He wants to believe that he'll know when to lose all hope, when to definitely leave, but it doesn't seem like he will. Weeks pass, and he stays, despite that the odds are less and less in his favor. 

 

He dreams a lot about her. Too much. Most nights. 

 

And all his dreams are as shitty as can be -shittier than dreams usually are.

 

It's always about her finally walking up the street, her entering the store. He goes down the stairs and finds her chatting with Zineb in the kitchen. 

She's in the backyard, taking care of the chickens for some reason. 

 

He sees her in the street, and he opens the window, calling her. Most times he dreams that she's on the bike, other times she's on foot, one time a car drops her off, another time she took a bus. 

 

Then he wakes up, and his day is the same as the previous one. 

 

He doesn't see her, and he doesn't hear about her.

 

His attention isn't the best at all time. Sometimes, he worries that he'll miss her passing by just because he's not focused to the best of his capacities, and it kills him. 

 

Zineb hasn't noticed that he's been losing weight.

He eats, but not as much as he used to.

 

Going back to  _that house_  crosses his mind  _a few times_ , to use a euphemism.   

 

He rubs his eyes and his face good to keep from gasping for air when he feels that his lungs aren't enough anymore -when his chest is too tight, thinking about how Rey must be doing.

_Is she okay? Is she doing okay?_

 

All it'd took would be to walk to the house. Check on her. 

 

This is a regular, painful argument he has with himself at any moment of the day. 

 

_It'd be fine, it's fine, just go and check on her. Check on her. Check on her._

 

But every time he's about to leave, every time he thinks today is the day that he'll give up and go to that fucking house, just to have a glance, be sure she's not letting herself die ---something grips his throat, pulling him back. 

 

_She doesn't want you there. She expressly asked you to leave._

_You intruded on her property. You don't have the right to be there._

  

He'd like to act at least a little bit like things are sort of fine and not worry Zineb too much, as for some reason the woman grows protective of him in a short amount of time.

 

Her ways are a bit abrupt. She roughly runs her hands in his hair to arrange them. Orders him to shave. 

 

Asks him if he slept well. 

Calls him  _ma caille._

 

But it doesn't take much perspicacity to perceive his hopelessness. 

 

Zineb understands soon enough that he's waiting after something.

 

Later, she understands that he's waiting for  _someone_. 

 

He slips a word or two about Rey. Barely. 

 

Murmuring.   

 

The rest is left to Zineb's imagination. 

 

"I don't know that I'd be very nice to her, if I were to meet that  _zouz_."

 

"Well she only speaks English," he mutters. "So you wouldn't be able to tell her much, good or bad."

 

Zineb doesn't add anything, although she doesn't need to. Her opinion about the situation is all over her face. 

 

After two months spent in Zineb's house, something happens that Ben would never have imagined could happen.

 

The systematic disappointment and helplessness he endures sitting by his window, every day that Rey isn't here, gradually makes him nauseous.

So much so that, almost from one day to the next, he stays away from his window.

 

Suddenly too anxious to check the street, or too anxious to sit by the cash register and hope as hard as he can that the next customer will be her. 

 

He stays away from the side facing the street.

Then starts spending all his time in the backyard, cleaning the hen house -sitting on the old, wooden chair in the small park where Zineb keeps her ten chickens during the day, petting them.

 

Zineb notices the change in his behavior, and she doesn't comment on it.

 

From her point of view, this is improvement.

He's finally getting some sun. 

 

He doesn't have it in him yet to leave for good.

 

Despite how he struggles swallowing around the lump in his throat every time he does, he starts thinking more seriously that he should -he should leave. 

 

There's a surveillance camera in the main room of the store, with a screen right above the register. The kind of thing he's seen in Paris, that's of absolutely no use here, in one of the smallest village of France. Ben was probably not even born the last time a robbery happened in St Nazaire-le-Désert. 

 

The image is in black and white, and it doesn't record.  _So it's there for show,_  which makes it even more hilarious. Ben asks about it to Zineb, and she claims that it was already installed when she bought the store ten years ago.

 

He doesn't think more of it though. Doesn't imagine for a second that he'll be brought to look at that screen for more than three seconds. 

That the screen is, in a way, shaped like a window. 

 

It happens a few times that Zineb yells something in arabe in the house. He has no idea what she says, but he always knows right away that she's looking for him.

 

He's in the kitchen that afternoon, pouring boiling water in a bucket to soften the pieces of hard bread that Zineb puts aside for her chickens. 

 

The bread floats, so he turns the pieces around with a wooden spoon in the smoking water.  

 

When he yells back  _De quoi,_  Zineb is already in the kitchen with him. 

 

He tenses when he hears her behind him, because he's sure she'll have something to say about how that's too many pieces of bread, or too much water, or that she doesn't want the bucket to be in the sink, that he should have done that outside---

 

But no. 

 

"There's a woman who speaks English crouched behind the shelves."

 

Hesitant to throw another piece of bread in the water, especially under Zineb's watch, he mumbles: "Need me to do the check out? ...to translate?"

 

As soon as the words are out, he stills. 

 

Slowly, he puts the wooden spoon down next to the bucket. He doesn't look at Zineb. Self-conscious. 

 

Inthe hallway, he walks like he just learned how to. With slow, terrified steps.  

 

He wants to be as silent as possible, to see if he can hear anything from the store.

  

Already, he's hoping that he's mentally prepared enough for the very high probability that it's not her. British people travel in France all the time. There must be more than one English-speaker in the Drôme.

 

His heart is pounding nonetheless.

He can't help it. 

 

The disappointment will crush him when he sees that it's not her. 

 

Delicately, his hand parts the beaded curtain in its middle. He's dimly aware that he's not acting normal at all, taking one step forward and standing there.

A bit like he would if he was trying to approach a wild animal and not an actual person. 

 

Being that hesitant won't do anything to change her heart if she doesn't want to see him.  

 

He stops there. Simply unable to move further. 

 

A light breeze reaches him from the opened doors, right ahead of him. And all he hears is the faint buzz of the mini-fridge near the cash register. Nothing else. 

 

There are five cans over there, waiting on the counter.

 

He glances at the shelves.

 

If someone is standing behind them, they're not making a sound. 

 

He focuses on breathing slowly enough to not feel like he's drowning. One second, his legs are rigid, and his mind is blank, at a loss of what to do. 

 

The next, his eyes lift up to the screen above the cash register, near the ceiling. 

 

If he had anything to say, he wouldn't be able to say it. His throat goes almost too tight to even breathe. 

 

Even with such low quality, even bent like she is, he knows it's her.

 

He recognizes the dress.

 

Her hair are longer. 

 

She's hiding. Paralyzed, like he is. 

 

When she takes a quiet step back, and gets to see the screen herself above the shelves, she finally reacts like he's imagined she would. 

 

She runs from him.

 

He stands there -and Zineb is the one running after her. 

 

His mind keeps stuttering for a good while, unable to really process what happened, what to make of it. 

 

But he knows, finally, that this particular ordeal is over.

 

No more waiting blindly. 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I tried to work it away / But that just made me even sadder / I tried to keep myself busy / I ran around in circles / Think I made myself dizzy](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lnUV4cz0gv8)
> 
>  
> 
> "Dégage, Benjamin," says Zineb = "Fuck off, Benjamin."
> 
> Zineb calls Ben "ma caille", which is a southern term of endearment in France usually used for children. Literal translation: "my quail".
> 
> "Zouz" is from Algerian originally, and in France it's slang for "girl".
> 
> Next chapter should be from Ben's POV again.


	27. C'est la vie

 

 

The sun is on the horizon when Ben takes the pathway from Rey's house to the one way road.

 

The night will have fallen completely by the time he gets to the store. 

 

Earlier, just seeing the house causes his hands to shake. Still he goes on weak legs, around the house by the back, and get to the French doors. 

 

If she's on the couch, she'll see him. He counts on the fact that he knows her enough, and that she'll be sleeping.

 

Breaths short, he slowly lets the plastic bags down by the door, careful not to make any sound. 

 

_Is that the right thing to do?_

 

He's too edgy to look inside through the windows.

 

He turns around immediately, and leaves.

 

Never in his life has he felt more helpless about a situation before. He's not sure of how to proceed.

Not that he's really known what to do about anything in his life.

 

It's just that he's not used to  _care_ -about himself or anyone, and about what happens in general.

 

In the past, he's in fact really done all he could not to care. 

Wasting his life at jobs he hates, never getting to form any real friendship; hearing that old friends from high school got married, have had children, got divorced, got remarried. 

 

Pretending that there's no problem is one way to protect yourself. Maybe not the best way, but one of the ways. 

 

His mother never comes to visit him. He drops out of high school. He loses his job. He has to move out of yet another apartment. 

 

Every time Ben swallows, purses his lips, shrugs.  _C'est la vie._

 

At twenty just like at thirty, his heart is in his throat when he thinks about his life as a whole. He doesn't know where he's going, even less  _why_  he's going there, just that he must keep going.

 

Searching for purpose in life is a luxury he must leave to the people who can afford it. 

 

 _Now_  is never the time to think about how aimless he is, how his choices never seem to be the right ones, how little thinking he defensively puts into them, how so many times he even makes a point to just take what's given to him without questioning it -so much so that he ends up closely working with criminals.  

 

What good would that bring to think about where he comes from and where he's going, when he can't do anything to change his circumstances? 

Big questions he'll never get the answers of are a loss of time and energy for people like him. People that don't get a say in the world. 

 

Tonight though, walking in the dark on the side of the road to St Nazaire le Désert, for the first time in his life, Ben really wishes he wasn't that powerless. He wishes he was knowledgeable. He wishes he had some say in all this. 

 

Leaving the store, he doesn't tell Zineb where he goes, and coming back he doesn't say anything either, doesn't confirm that it was Rey -although he strongly suspects that he doesn't have to.

 

She has the tact and the modesty not to ask, so characteristic of Mediterranean people, who share this culture where love is never talked about but given through food and harsh manners. 

He's so anxious about having seen Rey again that he's got no appetite, but he eats anyway, because Zineb has made it clear countless times that it wasn't negotiable.  

 

He anticipates that he won't sleep at all, and indeed, that's what happens. 

 

The next morning, his eyes are wide open as the sun isn't even up yet. 

He lies in the dark, staring at the ceiling, waiting after he doesn't know what. 

 

For her to come back? 

For the right moment to go back to the house? 

What now? 

 

At seven, he gets up. 

For some time cleaning the fridge distracts him.

When he takes the stairs back to his bedroom, he doesn't even realize he checks the street through his window. It happens on its own, when he resolutely decided he wouldn't put himself through this special kind of torture.

Then it happens again three more times, after eating breakfast with Zineb and feeding the chickens.

He checks the window like some people check their phones. 

 

When he's tired of taking the stairs back and forth for just a glance, he gives up and sits next to it.

Fuck his dignity and fuck his resolve, he supposes. 

 

He sits, fists tight, biting the inside of his cheek. 

If she doesn't come, not today, not tomorrow, and not the following days either, how well will he handle it? Just how able is he to swallow her definitive rejection? 

 

Meaning her  _second_  definitive rejection. 

 

He hides his face in his hands, breathing slowly. Where will he go this time? 

 

What will he do with himself this time? 

 

Being purposeless has a whole other weight now.

It feels very real.

 

He knows which way she's supposed to come from, and he can see that whole side of the street from where he sits.

 

And after waiting for almost three hours there, obsessing over what he's done, and what he could have done differently, with Rey, and all the rest in his life too, he finally thinks better of just waiting there passively and gets up---

 

\--glancing one last time to see her on her bike. 

 

He stills completely. 

 

It's worse than yesterday. He actually feels nauseous this time. 

 

She slows down near their side of the street, a bit before the store. He gets closer to the window. It's difficult to see her clearly, but he sees enough to watch her get down from her bike and lean it against the wall. 

 

He can't see her face, as her chin is a bit inward. She just stands there, by her bike, eyes on the store. Not taking any step further. 

 

He doesn't move a muscle either.

He's ready to bolt down the stairs the second she moves to the store, though. 

 

But that's the thing. She doesn't. 

She stands there, and every second that passes makes it harder for him not to _lose it._

 

Eventually, she does move though. It even looks like those are determined steps. 

She's stronger than him then.

He's close to fall down the stairs, his legs are so weak. 

 

Parting the beaded curtain as soon as he gets to it, he sees her standing by the counter, head down, her hands inside her backpack in front of her -looking for something. The light from outside behind her makes it hard for him to see her face. 

 

He doesn't care that him being there a second after she came in makes it obvious to her that he saw her arriving. 

 

He, on the other hand, knows she knows it's him who just entered the room, because of the way she resolutely doesn't look up from her backpack. 

 

Even with how little she's moving, he can see how rigid she is. He takes several unsure steps toward her, without getting behind the counter. Not brave enough to get any closer. 

As usual, the store is so quiet, he can actually hear how unsteady her own breathing is. 

Unless it's just his own. 

 

They're two stupid people. 

 

He'd like to say  _hello_ , or anything else, but reading her is so hard he's unable to utter a word just yet. 

Afraid he'll say the wrong thing, whatever it is.   

 

Although he's deeply aware of how there's hardly anything that sounds right, after all this time. The moment is bound to be at least so awkward and tense it'll hurt for days. 

 

He absently notices how sharper her cheekbones are than how he remembers them. 

 

Then, he notices that nothing is on the counter.

 

But he doesn't have the time to draw any conclusion from that that she finally speaks.

 

"I--," she swallows, still not looking at him, eyes on something in her backpack. "I came to pay for the cans."

 

She pulls out a twenty euros bill. Clears her throat, still not looking at him. "How much was it?"

 

Hearing her voice for the first time in months is such an emotional shock on its own, that he needs a few additional seconds to process what she just said. 

 

And when he does process it, he's hurt beyond measure. 

 

His entire body goes rigid as a corpse. 

 

He's so hurt he can't speak. 

 

If she had talked to Zineb instead of him, would she have given her the money and left? Is that really why she came?

 

He presses his lips tight, chin tucked in, swallowing. 

 

"How much, Ben?"

 

She's still not looking at him. He still doesn't speak. 

 

She sharply exhales through her nose, muttering: "Can you---call the manager, or something?"

 

His fists clench tight. 

 

Why didn't he expect this? 

It might have hurt less, if he had prepared himself for that possibility. He didn't think of it. 

 

_He didn't think of it._

"Fine," she hisses, slapping the bill on the counter, making him flinch, " _Here_."

 

Then, there's barely the shadow of a hesitation --and she steps out of the store. 

 

This time, though, he follows her. 

 

"It's five cans, Rey--"

 

As she reaches to grab the bike, he can see that she's visibly shaking now. She takes the handlebar in both hands, still not looking at him, but before he can say anything else, she stops and changes her mind -letting go of the bike. 

 

"-- _and I don't know why I'm taking this, this isn't mine,_ " he hears her say -her throat tight. 

 

He jumps back when the bike falls to the ground right in front of him. 

 

She doesn't say anything else.

 

She walks away from him, arms rigid at her side, head down.

 

He doesn't follow her.

 

It takes her no time to disappear from his sight. 

 

Standing there, his ears are buzzing, his chest is getting too tight to breathe. 

 

He doesn't follow her, doesn't even entertain the idea. 

 

 _She must have thought about him_ , he tells himself. 

 

She must have. 

 

_Hasn't she?_

 

Doesn't she miss him?

 

He covers his eyes. 

 

Life has gotten too fucking hard recently.

It's starting to be too much, and he's been part of the mafia once, so he means it.

 

After he doesn't know how long, with a shaky exhale, he bends and grabs the bike -leaning it back against the wall. 

 

Once inside, he doesn't tell Zineb anything. 

 

And after lunch, he goes to his room.

This time, he doesn't sit by the window, lying down instead on his front on the bed, face buried under the pillow, like a teenager.

 

The irony being that he's never felt this way when he was an actual teenager.

 

Rey doesn't come three days in a row.

 

Naturally, he spends the entirety of those three days asking himself if he should go to that fucking house.

The entirety of the three nights awake.

 

The entirety of his meals with Zineb giving her nothing more than one word-answers -and feeling shitty in the process. 

 

Clearly he's not the man to ask what's next to do. He's clueless, if her reaction to the cans he left at her door is anything to go by. 

 

He couldn't be more a  _boy_  if he tried, but he's actually starting to believe that she  _hates him_. 

 

This is worse than when he waited blindly. His encounter with Rey had a taste of finality. She came to pay for the cans. She's expressed resentment. Nothing else.

He's being in denial.

 

He should leave. There's no legitimate reason for him to stay. 

 

Yet, for three more days, he does stay. 

 

On the third day, he's bent completely to check the expiration dates of the cans stocked under the shelves. Zineb was about to do it, and because he was afraid he might jump through the window if he stayed in his room this afternoon he asked to do it. 

 

She doesn't fight him over this, which tells him that the woman must pity him with a fervor. She's not blind, and his pain is not a subtle thing to catch, despite that he doesn't tell her anything. 

 

His face near the ground, reaching for the last box under the shelves.

 

He's caught off guard then, by a pair of white tennis shoesthat aren't so white, on the other side of the shelves. 

 

She hasn't worn them much, but he knows it's hers. He has no doubt about it, doesn't need to see more of her ankle to know that it's her, standing on the other side of those shelves.

 

Then, he sees those tennis shoes quietly turn around, and walk away--

 

\- to the counter, stopping there. Facing it. 

 

Waiting. 

 

He doesn't make her wait, but he's not running to her either this time. 

 

Their last exchange at the counter left him extremely wary. Since he's so lucky, lightning could strike him twice at the same spot. 

 

Just like last time, she's rummaging through her bag, although her face is a bit redder, a bit more down.

 

Just like last time, she doesn't look up. 

 

It's obvious that that backpack is mostly empty. But she's taking her time looking inside, because it's a good reason to keep her eyes down. 

 

It stings even more than the other day.

Just not being able to  _see_  her has caused him so much pain those past three months.

 

She hasn't been through the same ordeal as him regarding that at least. 

 

Jaw set, he approaches the counter without a word. 

 

He doesn't get behind, just on the side, not quite in front of her. 

 

Like the other day, he doesn't a word until she does -and she does, barely high enough for him to hear. 

 

"--you're working here, now?"

 

He presses his lips tight. 

This casual question after all this time, like they're pal from high school, after what happened the other day, doesn't suit him at all. 

 

He's not working here, he's just renting a room here, and sometimes, he likes to help Zineb. Since that's not the conversation he wants to have with her, he doesn't tell her all that. 

 

"...sort of," is what he mutters.  

 

He can tell, then, at the way her mouth frowns for just an instant, that he's not giving her the information she's trying to get, whatever that is. She's irritated by that answer, and maybe, if he's perceptive at all, she's even  _hurt_. 

He doesn't know why, and he doesn't have the time to ask himself why, because she speaks again. 

 

He can tell he's not giving her the information she's trying to get. She irritated at that answer -she looks  _hurt_ , even, and he doesn't know why, not until she speaks again. 

 

She swallows as if she actually had something incredibly bitter in her mouth, and breathes: 

 

"You did good. Whatever opportunity there is," pulling out her wallet.  

 

His eyes narrow despite himself, unsure what she means.

 

She puts down ten euros on the counter and mutters again, very low -still not meeting his eyes.  

"...at least you found another place to hide." 

 

His complete silence in return, and his refusal to move at all, are disconcerting enough that finally,  _finally_ , she glances at him. 

 

He doesn't have enough self awareness, at that moment, to know precisely what his expression is, but it makes her blink. 

 

"I---gave you this address," he starts, lips in a tight line in an effort to match her tone. "You know that, right?"

 

It seems apparent that it costs him to ask.

 

He barely lets her stammer "w-what address?" that he elaborates, with much less patience in his voice. 

 

 _"The day I left._  I talked to you ---through the door."

 

If the memory is as painful to her as it is to him, she manages not to show anything aside her confusion. 

 

"--and I told you how to find this village," he continues. "I told you about this store."

 

He realizes then that he's stepped closer, and that she's visibly trying not to step back, but she can't look at him for more than two seconds, looking down, then on the side, blinking, stammering "I, I--"---

\--trying to remember, is she? Or trying to deflect? Trying to come up with a retort? 

Which is it?

 

He's getting closer, trying his best not to bare his teeth, and keeping the volume down. 

 

_"...you find me here three months later, and you think it's just a coincidence?"_

 

She huffs defensively, but she's clearly unsettled. "Oh, so... that was just---  _part of a plan_  all along? Being here?" she asks incredulously. "Is that what you're saying?"

 

He's so angry at her, he realizes just then. 

Not righteously so, but it's anger, he recognizes the taste.

 

It blinds him. 

 

"Listen, Rey, listen good," he warns, gritting his teeth. She does step back this time, when he steps forward. They're moving toward the entrance.  

And she's looking at him now. Right at him.  

 

"...I'm leaving tomorrow." 

 

He's in too deep then to even be surprised by his own words. They spill out on their own. Her eyes widen. 

 

"For good this time.  _This is it_. You got it?"

 

He doesn't know how it sounds to her, but to him it feels like he's threatening himself. 

She's trying to keep her composure, moving backward, not quite succeeding. The whole thing obviously catches her off guard. 

 

Him too. 

 

" _Shut up_ ," he hisses when she's about to protest. " _I'm packing my shit tonight_ , and tomorrow, I'm leaving. You better make up your mind about me and be here before  _noon_ , if you don't want that to happen."

 

This time she slips some words in, stammering with a tremble of her chin, yet trying to glare back:

"-where are you goin---"

 

 _"No!"_  He barks at her, making her flinch, her eyes round. " _I'm not giving you an address._  Or a number. Or the address of a friend, or  _their_  number.  _Either be there tomorrow, or I'll be gone."_  

 

Way more forcefully then necessary, he grabs the bill and the can she left on the counter. 

 

"Here's your food," he concludes, shoving the can in her chest, before grabbing her wrist, and clasping the bill in the palm of her hand: "--and here's your money too."

 

He's about to leave her there, turning around, sure that he's done and that it's done, yet...

 

He faces her again, when she barely can hold his stare back, her eyes shiny. It doesn't stop him. 

 

This time, he does shout, pointing outside.

 

"... _and I don't want to  see that fucking bike against the wall_ ,  _you hear?_  Do what you want with it but I want it  _gone!"_

 

He turns his back to her before he gets to see her leave. Zineb meets him at the curtain, her voice high-pitched with disbelief. 

 

"Why are you yelling??"

 

"I'm not yelling!!" He yells -before passing the curtain and running up the stairs.

 

He doesn't know how long it takes him to regain control of his breathing. He's insane. 

 

When he does, when he can think again, actually form coherent thoughts, sitting on the bed, he realizes what he's done. 

 

What if she doesn't come? 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [But when I want sincerity / Tell me where else can I turn / 'Cause you're the one I depend upon](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=R4gOIt-M02A)
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> Next chapter will be from Rey's POV! 
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> Thank you for reading =)


	28. Cicadas will be singing late into the night

 

He was there. 

 

The whole time, Ben was right. There. 

 

The relief Rey should be free to feel after discovering that,  _no_ , he hasn't left, is completely smothered by the knowledge that,  _yes_ , he was right there,  _and he knew where she was --_ but he didn't come back to the house, not even once. 

 

She's well aware that she doesn't have any right to be hurt by that, or mad at him.

Being aware of it makes her even more furious. 

 

All she can do now is hate herself -more so than she already does.

She resents the simple reality that she asked him to leave, and that he only did what she asked. 

 

Alone in the house, she's not lying around anymore. She paces the living-room, worrying at her lip, asking herself on a loop:  _now, what?_

 

She's got so much anger in her, more than she knows what to do with -she chokes on it. It shocks her, how angry and hurt she is, given that she'd usually struggle to feel anything at all. 

 

She can't believe Ben was there all this time. 

_All this time, he was so close by._

Seeing him for the first time in months, from behind those shelves in that fucking store, it takes her approximately one single second  to feel  _full force_  the whole extent of her infatuation for him -as if absolutely no time had passed since she last saw him. 

 

And if time isn't going to be of any help in her recovery from Ben Solo, then what? 

Aren't those things supposed dampen at least a little bit, when someone bravely waits it out?

 

Before seeing him in that grocery store, during her months spent alone, she has to convince herself that there's no regret to have regarding her decision or what she said to him, because she thinks that there's nothing to be done to fix  _this;_  that there's no way out of that pit she dug for herself.

 

If there is nothing to be done, there is no use regretting anything.

 

 _Now_ , though---

 

He was there all along, while she was alone. 

She remained alone, because she didn't know where to look for him,  _or that she could even go look for him._

 

To Ben, meanwhile, as long as he had a place to stay, it was enough.

 

He doesn't need her the way she needs him. 

 

Is she about to make a fool of herself, and go back to that store? 

 

For what?

 

To beg him to reconsider a decision  _she_  made? 

 

Pacing in her house back and forth, unable to sleep, unable to sit down, staring at the blue plastic bags on the other side of the French doors in the middle of the night, she's not getting close to any conclusion, she can't be sure of anything--

\---other than she misses him.

 

She does sit down to cry at some point, at the kitchen table. Alone, in the silence of her house.

 

She can't believe that she had him for herself for so long, that he willingly took care of her in every possible way and that three months later she could almost bring herself to doubt any of it ever happened.

She wants to imagine that he returned her feelings a little bit, but it's  _hard_ , knowing what she knows now. 

 

No cans left at her door can calm her down, or console her. 

 

\----but it gives her an excuse to go back to that store. 

 

So she does. 

 

Her heart hammers in her chest  _waaaay_  before she's even on her bike.

 

The ride from the house to the store 

 

She doesn't have a plan, other than use the excuse of paying for the cans to see him again.

She doesn't have a plan, and her mind is in no state to come up with one. Mainly, she thinks over and over that she wishes what happened didn't, and that she doesn't know what to do. 

 

She also imagines herself asking him in no particular order if he missed her. If his stay with her meant anything to him. 

 

If he's been miserable away from her the way she has.

 

When she's in the same room as him thirty minutes later, though -when he passes the beaded curtain at the end of the store and stands  _right there_ , a few meters from her---

 

She can't even look at him. 

 

He, on the other hand, can't bring himself to say anything to her. 

 

She knew  _damn well_  that it would only hurt more to go back and see him. Yet she did it anyway. 

 

Nothing of what she really wants to say to him comes out of her mouth.

 

She just looks around in her backpack, her head down, her voice unsteady. 

 

Maybe he's the brave one, and he'll give her some closure, she thinks on her way there. He'll tell her that he's moved on, that he'd prefer it if they didn't see each other again, that he'll hurt her for  _good_ , so she can finally stop clinging to what they shared. 

 

But he doesn't say any of that. He keeps silent, he remains polite, obliging, and it infuriates her even more. 

 

She doesn't want anything from him if she can't have  _everything_. Fuck the cans, fuck the bike -fuck his  _pity_.  _She wants to stop thinking about him day and night, and he's not giving her a reason to._

 

It takes her over an hour to walk back to her house that day, since she left the bike behind her.

 

In the sun, with tears of frustration and self loathing streaming down her face, she's still clueless, still doesn't know what to do next, still feels like she can't go back and can't move on. 

 

No amount of happiness with him is worth this  _shit_. This is pure torture. 

 

How long will she make herself believe she won't return to that store before she caves?

 

Turns out not that long, but longer than she thought. 

She's back on that road three days later, quite early in the morning by her standards, her stomach in knots from apprehension. She's going there because she can't help it, and she hates herself for it. 

 

She just has to see him, even if he doesn't want to see her. He hasn't said so, so she'll act like she's stupid. 

 

She still doesn't know what she'll do once she faces him, but she's going there. 

Even to herself, even with how low her self-esteem is, it counts for something. 

 

In the store, she hears someone behind the shelves, and the worst kind of fright grips her. She has no idea if it's him or the woman she saw the other day, and she can't bring herself to check. She takes a can and puts it on the counter with a weak hand, unaware of what she even picked. 

 

Ten seconds later, without having to look at him, she knows it's him. 

 

She actually recognizes the sound of his steps. 

 

This time, she speaks with a more resigned tone, but she's sure he can hear how resentful she is still. She'd like not to be. She'd like to be mature enough to call herself an adult, and cry in front of him -or casually ask him how he is. One of the two. 

 

But that's not what happens.

 

Instead, she grits her teeth asking if he works at the store. Could seem like an innocent question, and it's not. She later realizes how focused she was on the story she told herself when she saw him again after all that time. 

When he tells her he does work here, she winces.

 

Yet the next moment, the whole situation is turned upside down. 

 

He's yelling at her.

 

He's never yelled at her before -she's never heard him yell at all, period. She has all the difficulties in the world to look at him and not step back from him.

And pay attention to what he says. 

 

But she does, regardless of how nothing makes sense to her. 

 

She stammers back, flinching, at a loss, confused and hurting all the more. 

 

Too many emotions at once, too much to take in. It's a blur. 

 

She staggers out of the store with an ultimatum, accusations, and a lot implied with very few words -all of it leaving her dizzy and disoriented.

 

For a few meters, she actually  _runs_ , eyes burning and breaths short -leaving the bike behind once more despite that he's just shouted at her to take it. 

 

She's more confused by the minute about what happened, but one thing is sure.

 

Anger is back  _full swing._

 

_How dare he._

 

Back in the house, she's pacing big time. Her chest heaves, and she tries to put together the pieces of the puzzle he threw at her earlier. 

 

Even  _she_  knows that people in love need more than allusions, implications,  _hints_. They need all the certitude they can get. He's left her with more questions than answers. 

 

_A coincidence?_

_...you find me here three months later, and you think it's just a coincidence?_

 

She grits her teeth, throat dry. Why then? Why leave her alone all this time? What did he mean? 

 

An ultimatum. 

 

She sits and stare at the clock above the fridge, legs restless. Furious, fists tight.

 

Tomorrow at noon. Tomorrow at noon. 

 

She huts her eyes hard, jaw clenched. 

 

 _She's_  the one who went to  _him_. 

 

_Make up her mind?_

_He wants her to make up her mind about him?_

 

This, in particular, infuriates her and hurts her more than anything. 

She knows deep down that she asked him to leave, once.

 

Still it doesn't sit well that he dared say that to her, that he would doubt her. It really doesn't. 

 

Not when he's said with all the fervor he could muster that he wouldn't hesitate  _to leave tomorrow_  if she didn't obey him. 

 

That's not something that  _she_  could do in a million years, she knows that much. 

 

After all this time apart from him, she knows just that of life: that she can't be apart from him. 

 

She needs time to calm down. Clear her head. Prepare herself. 

 

When has she ever been reasonable, though? 

 

She can't wait until tomorrow. 

 

So a few hours later, around five, she leaves the house. 

 

Despite how much more decided she is now than she was the precedent times, she's still so nervous she's sick to her stomach on her way there. 

 

She has to walk, of course, and the sun is still as merciless as ever. During all the time that it takes her to walk to that village, she imagines a million arguments with him, all ending with him screaming at her -and with her screaming back. 

 

Nothing is ever solved. 

 

She's too insecure to understand that since it's only happening in her head, half the data is missing. 

 

If she wants any resolution, good or bad, she'll have to extract that half from Ben. 

 

She doesn't know his schedule, naturally, and when she arrives, it's not him sitting behind the counter, but the woman from the other day.

 

Rey anticipated that possibility, and she just hopes she won't have to wait for him that he comes back from wherever he is in the village.

She's scared of having second thoughts in the meantime, of doubting how legitimate her indignation about what happened this morning is. 

 

She needs to see him  _now,_ now that her anger is still fresh.  

 

So hopefully, the woman -his colleague, his boss- will just call his name and he'll appear behind the curtain at the back of the store, even if the mere thought terrifies her, as she understands she'll have to use  _words_  and try to actually make sense, and that it won't sound just as righteous and as good in real life as it does in her head. 

 

Very fortunately for her, despite that the woman doesn't speak English, Rey doesn't need to speak French either to ask after Ben. 

 

"Bonjour," she murmurs, still intimidated by the surreal silence of the store -and of the village in general. The woman gives her a nod of the head, frowning. 

 

Frowning like she's concerned, as if Rey was a little girl who lost her  _mommy_  on the street. 

 

Rey can't say if the woman remembers her.

 

"Is Ben here?" She asks -and then, because it's pointless to ask this way, she just repeats: "...Ben? Benjamin?"

 

For a very brief moment, brought back to stranger times, she wonders if he told his boss his name was  _Ren._

 

Only for a very brief moment though.

 

The face the woman makes then is unsettling.

 

Rey can't quite interpret it.  

 

The forty-something woman rearranges her hijab, with quick, nervous jerks of her hands. All of a sudden she can't seem to be able to look straight at Rey. 

 

She mutters something in Arab, sighing, then looks at Rey with a wince. 

 

"Ben." A wave of her hand. _"Il est parti."_

 

Rey stares blankly at her. 

 

"Mmh?" She goes, stilling herself. "What?"

 

The woman waves at the door. " _Il est parti_. Ben.  _Aurevoir_ , Ben."

 

Rey's heart must speak French -it beats so loud and fast, it feels like it's understood something she hasn't. Something is off.

 

Lips trembling, she repeats: "... _aurevoir_?"

 

The woman nods. 

 

Rey clears her throat. "Okay." She remains silent for a few seconds. Trying all she can not to panic. 

The woman's contrite expression isn't helping at all. 

 

"When will he be back?"

 

The woman squints, shrugging, confused. 

 

 _"...when will he be back?"_  Rey repeats, tapping softly with the tip of her finger on her wrist, where a watch would be if she had one. "At what time?"

 

The woman closes her eyes.

 

Then covers them with her hand, shaking her head.

 

What is going on? 

 

Rey looks toward the street, then at the curtain at the back of the store, then at the woman again.  

 

Maybe she got the message right the first time. 

 

The woman looks at her with so much pity her legs feel very weak. 

 

"Ben est  _parti_.  _Goodbye_ , Ben.  _Bye-bye_."

 

Rey stares back at the woman, waiting for more information -frozen. 

 

None comes. 

 

Calm.

Calm,  _stay calm_.

 

This is a misunderstanding. It must be. 

 

He said  _tomorrow_. 

 

 _He said tomorrow at noon_. She heard him, just a few hours earlier, right here where she stands. 

 

Right when she speaks again, hot tears fall that she didn't even feel coming: 

"Did he--- leave a, phone number?  _Téléphone?_  Ben's  _téléphone_?"she tries, blinking tears, holding her thumb and her pinky finger on the side of her head to mimic a phone with a shaky hand. 

 

She's barely audible, her throat too tight to speak louder -she can tell it's that bad at the way the woman squints her eyes even more. 

 

She's trying  _really hard_  not to yield to panic in front of that stranger, but her chest seems just about to burst. 

 

The woman lets out a quiet "ah" with a prompt nod, and bends to look under the counter. Rey tries to take deep breaths in, to slow her heart down. It doesn't really work. 

 

He didn't. This is a misunderstanding. She's sure of it. 

 

What did she do? ... _what did she do?_

 

She came in time, like he told her to ---this can't really be happening, it simply can't. 

 

Her face is burning from trying to hold back tears. 

 

The woman straightens back with an old smartphone in hand, quickly typing on the screen. "Une seconde, j'appelle."

 

Rey is starting to feel sick as she watches the woman bring the phone to her ear and wait. 

 

From where she stands, she can hear the ringtone from the phone. 

 

With half a second of delay, coming from upstairs, she hears what sounds like the ringtone of a landline. 

 

She stills, eyes wet on the ceiling and face red, holding her breath. 

 

_...what?_

 

Footsteps crosses the floor upstairs then, right above Rey. 

 

She slowly looks back at the woman, shocked.  _What the fuck?_

 

The woman doesn't look at her. She just waits, unperturbed. 

 

The ringtone stops the moment someone picks the phone up, that someone's voice muffled through the floor above Rey, but coming out of the phone too. 

 

" _Tu peux descendre s'il-te-plaît? Ta zouz est là et je dois fermer le magasin_ ," the woman simply says with a blasé expression, still ignoring Rey, before she hangs up, and opens the cash register, counting the bills and the coins there without adding another word. 

 

Hurried footsteps run down some stairs.

 

And the next moment,  _he's there_ , standing right in the doorway. Stunned, paralyzed, just like Rey is. 

 

The adrenaline in her system drops at once.

 

She's shaking from relief, new tears following the first ones. 

 

Holy fuck. 

 

A brief black-out, and she's outside, trying to regain control of herself, hands covering her eyes, taking shaky steps away from the store.

She can't be sure Ben is following her until she hears a very hesitant "...Rey?" behind her. 

 

_Holy fuck._

 

She turns around, soundlessly opening her mouth, her throat too tight to speak at first.

 

He stops right with her. 

 

The luminosity is still too bright at this hour for someone whose eyes are so heavy with tears. She can't look at him even if she wants to.

 

"Would you really---" she starts, swallowing despite her dry mouth, wiping the tears from her eyes over and over to be able to look at him. 

 

"...you would leave?" She finally murmurs, hurt that she can't be sure of the answer, hurt that she has to ask, hurt that still at this moment she's holding her breath, bracing herself for what he's about to say.

 

Her burning, irritated eyes try to find his face through the tears, only noticing then that his own are wet too. 

 

His jaw is set, but his chin is a bit in.  

 

She nearly misses it.

 

Lips pressed tight, without a sound, he sheepishly shakes his head. 

 

She exhales sharply, then sniffles, looking down. 

 

She can't stand to cry like this, in the middle of the street -even though every street in the village is empty- so she starts walking again, swallowing down silent sobs.

 

Again, she can't be certain he's following her, although it seems she hears him do just that, and fuck it,  _she's allowed some time now_ , because she came before _tomorrow at noon._

 

As if he could hear her thoughts, she thinks she hears him say: 

 

"...forget what I said about tomorrow..."

 

She winces, trying all she can to keep from sobbing. 

 

Then again, a few seconds later: "---- _just forget it._ "

 

She stops then to face him and speak, but her throat still doesn't work, and she can't produce any sound. So she keeps on walking. 

 

They're at the end of the village pretty fast, having passed the church and a few houses only, simply because the village is so small in the first place, and soon she's taking a path on the left of the main road, one that ultimately leads into the woods, a bit higher on the hill. 

 

Leaves rustle, cicadas sing and will be singing late into the night. It's so hot they barely ever stop, even early in the morning. 

 

She feels like she's suffocating, although that might not be the heat. 

 

The sunset is casting an orange strip on the hill. She instinctively walks toward the biggest poplar she's seen in her life yet, trying to find some shadow to hide in.

 

There's no point in walking any further -but because she realizes then that she's not ready to talk to him now that she can, she doesn't stop walking. 

 

 _He_  has to stop her. 

 

"---Rey, where are you going?"

 

She turns around again. 

 

It helps not to look at him in the eyes. 

 

_"Ben---"_

 

She tries not to whine, hating how she sounds -and to counter how small and pitiful her voice is, ignoring her trembling chin, she finally glares at him: "... _an ultimatum?"_

 

She sees him shudder, his head low, his lips tight. He doesn't respond right away, seeing as she's struggling to get more words out. 

 

"Instead of protecting  _it_ \---" she brings her arms to her chest, as if to cradle a child: "---and despite- whatever effort I make,  _you threaten it_."

 

She doesn't name  _it_. She hopes he won't ask.

 

It's hard making accusations, knowing that she brought this on herself. That she's the one who wanted him gone.

 

Yet he's so angry at him. 

 

His voice is unsteady. He's looking down still, and doesn't move an inch in front of her agitation. At least, the volume is way down this time. 

 

"I'm not some god," he breathes. "Most of the time, I don't know what to do."

 

Hearing how hurt he sounds is even worse than everything else, and she should have anticipated that. 

 

She tries to ignore it. "That's a threat I could never make."

 

Just when she sees tears rolling down his nose, his jaw clenches, along with his fists. His voice remains right above a murmur. 

 

"...oh, but you could ask me to leave."

 

It's a knee-jerk reaction: she hides her eyes behind her hands, forcing her lips closed for a few long seconds to keep in wet sounds in her chest.

 

 _"I'm not going to apologize for reacting the way I did,"_  is what finally comes out from behind her gritted teeth.

 

She leaves her hands there, breathing deeply in and out.

 

He keeps silent for some time--

 

\--before he murmurs again:

 

"I'm not asking you to apologize."

 

She hears him quietly swallow.

 

When she doesn't speak again right away, he adds, with more resentment in his voice than she expected to find:  

 

"I haven't felt like I matter to you half as much as you matter to me."

 

She uncovers her wet eyes this time, jerking her head up to look right at him: 

 

_"You don't matter at all to me. Isn't it obvious?"_

 

The sarcasm doesn't sit well.

 

Not with her, and certainly not with him either.

That much is  _obvious_  too. 

 

He doesn't look down and stares right back at her, jaw tight until he speaks again. 

 

"I'm going home."

 

It's a verdict. He turns around without waiting for a response. 

 

Her face crumples in an instant, her shoulders tremble. 

 

But he stops not even five meters away from her.

 

Turning his head just so she can see the side of his face.  

 

The way he grits his teeth it looks like he's about to say the meanest thing he can think of. 

 

This is what she hears instead. 

 

"...you're coming with me."

 

She blinks, chest heavy, her fists tight. 

 

But because she doesn't move, her name becomes a warning: 

 

_"Rey."_

 

She bows her head.

 

When he takes another step, she does too.  

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long afloat on shipless oceans / I did all my best to smile / 'Til your singing eyes and fingers / Drew me loving to your isle / Sail to me / Let me enfold you / Here I am / Waiting to hold you
> 
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> [The chirping and clicking noises of the male cicada are actually a species-specific _mating call_ that can be heard by females up to a mile (1.6 kilometers) away. [...] A chorus of lovesick cicadas can reach volumes greater than 100 decibels, which is louder than a lawnmower at full bore.](https://www.livescience.com/28925-why-cicadas-sing.html)


	29. Mon coeur

 

 

Distance grows between them the whole way back to the village.

 

She can't walk with quite the same resolution. Still, she doesn't stop walking, and she doesn't intend to. 

 

Ben is well ahead of her, now. 

 

Hurt, shame and frustration work together to slow her down. She can't compete with how a healthy mind deal with those particular emotions ---if he's dealing with them at all right now. 

 

Tears are still rolling down her cheeks by default at this point, and she's pretending for no one but herself that she's not aware she's crying. 

 

It seems to be a much shorter walk than when  _she_  was leading, in the opposite direction. 

 

When the store is in sight, the iron curtain has been pulled down, obviously by no one else than the lady from earlier.

 

Rey winces with a full body shudder at the thought of what happened between them; the  _misunderstanding_  that almost sent her spiraling. 

 

If his plan is to get her inside that store again, she's not ready to face that woman.

Although to be fair, she's never  _ready_  to face anything or anyone. She's always had to push through life, long before depression made necessary for her to _push through_ even the most mundane event.

 

If she listened to herself, nothing would ever be done.

 

Without realizing it she's put her forearms across her stomach while walking, holding herself, shielding the ache there. Her steps slow down more and more as they approach destination. 

 

She's the most difficult person to give attention to, she knows that. She's also the type to be the most in need of it. 

  

And  _mind you_  her life isn't what it used to be, because  _now_  she doesn't want the attention of just  _anybody_.

There used to be a time where anyone could do.  

 

She's  _so_  truly very fucked.

 

He's his back to her, not walking fast but most definitely  _going there._

  

If Ben can hear her cry despite how quiet and far from behind him she is, he doesn't turn around once. His shoulders visibly tense a few times, she notes -probably because she's desperate to read into everything she sees. 

 

He stops at what must be a service door of sort, on the right of the iron curtain, and puts his hand in his pocket, searching for the keys. 

 

With her head down, she walks to the bike.

 

She barely has the time to  _think_  about reaching for the handlebar, that he takes two steps to her and yanks the bike out of reach, hissing  _"Stop that"_  and making her flinch  _again -_ what's rapidly becoming a habit of his. 

 

She stills, mouth downturned, wishing she could stop annoying the shit out of him, but she's not even trying. 

 

He's still not looking at her directly. A second later the door is unlocked, and he steps aside, jaw set, keeping the door open for her to enter -waiting there perfectly still, determined to make clear that she has to step in first.

 

She'd like nothing more than to flee, hide and cry in private, just like when she was young enough to do all those things. But even though insecurities persist in life, people stop forgiving you at some point for acting like a child. 

 

Since she was born she's been compared to the average girl, the average woman. But she wasn't born average. 

 

She will always be the only one aware of the efforts she makes. And people will keep judging her harshly regardless.

 

Then again, most people can go fuck themselves.

Not everyone particularly deserves that she makes an effort. 

 

Head still low and cheeks wet, she passes him, and finds herself in the smallest and most narrow staircase she's ever been in. Just like she's careful not to touch him stepping in, he does the same entering the small space and closes the door. 

 

It's too dark then to see anything at first -it gets her some time for her eyes to get used to it.

 

He's right behind her, not moving at all, silent, and although there's only one way to go she stays there too, blinking, facing the stairs, waiting for him to take the lead once more.

 

"Is this where you want to spend the evening?" He finally asks -his voice sounding too close to her, making the hair on her neck stand.

She stiffens. 

 

Her body is drained. She shudders and reddens some more, aching and feverish, and takes the stairs, hearing him follow behind her. 

 

She tries to be sharp then, but her slightly wavering voice fails her:

 

_Where's your friend?"_

 

He doesn't sound bothered -not by her question, not by the fact that she's upset. 

 

"She's never here on Thursdays nights." 

 

Smells of mint, cumin and ginger get to her before she's at the top of the stairs. The sun hasn't completely set yet -it isn't dark enough out to already warrant turning the lights on inside.

 

She hears chicken, birds, and cicadas coming from outside. All the windows must have been left open. 

 

She stops at the top of the stairs, facing a short corridor, not knowing where to go. From where she stands, she sees a small living-room with a giant Berber rug on the floor, and a couch that takes two walls. 

 

Because he's right behind her he grabs her elbow, firmly enough that he maybe doesn't notice how she tenses when he gets her to move forward, to the entry of another room further down the corridor.

The kitchen. 

 

Inside, there are only two Formica chairs and a table, a sink and a few cupboards, and barely enough space to move. The window at the end of the room is wide open. 

 

The room is half the size of her own kitchen, and God knows that everything in her house is small. 

 

Without a word, he pulls down on her arm to get her to sit on one of the chair.

 

Then, he leaves the room. 

 

No matter how badly she wants to calm down, take a deep breath, her ribs are stuck, and she can't seem to be able to do anything other than wince and sniffle. 

She tares at the doorway through her tears, hands on her lap tightening on the hem of her dress, her heart apparently still outraged about what's happening although she can't say exactly why. 

 

Pretending like the past three months haven't happened at all isn't possible, is it? 

It'd be nice if it was. 

 

She hears water running in the next room. The next moment, the sound of his steps through the apartment coming back toward her make her avert her eyes quickly to the ground, her chin in.

It's hardly the right behavior to have, she knows that, but it's clear to her and surely to him at this point that she's without a plan. 

 

When she hears him stepping right to her, before she has his bare feet in sight, wet, cold fingers hold her chin and tilt her head back to look up at him. 

 

Before she can properly do so, though, and still without saying a word, he runs a soaked washcloth over her face. She goes rigid completely, but doesn't do anything to stop him, her lips tight to keep new, quiet sobs in.

 

Eyes closed, she lets him carefully cool down her burning skin and clean the salt off her face, press her nose a bit roughly and wash the sweat off her forehead with methodical, efficient wipes.

 

Glancing up at him with swollen eyes she can see that he's still avoiding her eyes, although his expression is rather blank compared to earlier. 

 

"I'll have to leave soon..." she murmurs with a tight throat -and he turns her back to her at that, throwing the washcloth in the sink in more or less casual fashion. She feels new, hot tears roll over her freshly cleaned cheeks when he doesn't say anything back, watching his back as he gets plates out of the fridge instead, ignoring her. 

 

So, she adds a bit louder, hating how whiny she sounds: 

"...I don't want to go back home when it's dark." 

 

He's busy at the counter, moving things in front of him that she can't see. 

"I don't care," he calmly informs her, not bothering to turn around. "You're eating with me tonight." 

 

This, is so close to what she needs -being in the same room as him, having him wash the tears off her face, being about to share a meal with him. So close, but it must not be it -because she winces again trying to keep from crying. 

 

"I'm not hungry  _at all,_ " she ends up weakly snapping, voice cracking.  

 

There's a short silence, then without turning around once more he counters with a voice shockingly down and even:

 

"... _I really don't give a fuck_ , Rey."

 

Her hands tighten on the fabric of her dress, her shoulders tense --she lowers her head, tucking her chin in. She can't pronounce another word. All she wants is for things to be right again. 

 

Maybe the silence then, that stretches a bit too long is what makes her glance up at him. She catches sight of a spoon he's holding, his hand on the counter, and a plate in front of him, before her eyes go further up and meet his. 

 

He's still facing the counter, but his head is turned just so he can look at her.  

 

She does it before she can stop it, probably boosted by the fact that he's looking directly at her this time. She doesn't know where her audacity comes from -although her trembling hand and hunched form doesn't scream courage at all. She'll always be the only one aware of the efforts she makes.

 

Still silently crying, she brings her forefinger to her lips, slowly -like it's the heaviest thing. 

 

And she taps there, barely, on her upper lip -her eyes still on his, soon unable to see his reaction without blinking as new tears keep forming and blur her vision. 

 

For the gesture to be so hesitant, she must have thought possible that he'd scowl at her, snap at her and just plainly reject her. It makes so little sense to her the next moment, when she gets to have his actual response.

 

There's barely the time for a shudder, before he leaves whatever he had in his hands on the counter.

The short distance between them is crossed in a second -and he bends, no question asked, to press his mouth to hers. 

 

Her hands immediately go up to grab his collar and keep him there.

 

There's really no hesitation at all anymore from either of them. It's very domestic, and feels intensely familiar, the kind of kiss dropped when there's no time to kiss, when one of the two is late for work but the need for a kiss is stronger.

 

There's no sensuality in it, and no finesse either. It really just  _needed_  to be done. 

 

He presses his lips good against hers, once, twice, and every time they part he readjusts his angle and kisses her a bit more forcefully. His hands on the back of her neck, he holds her in place, tilting her face to his and taking his time to give her the amount she needs, waiting for the cup to overflow. 

 

His touch liquefies her, and new quiet sobs of relief are muffled against his mouth.

 

She pushes him away gently after a moment and bends in half to wipe her face with her dress, despite sensing that she's not quite done crying just yet. She's never cried that much in her entire life -but now she's crying from relief. Just like that.

 

He doesn't move at all until she lifts her head back up. Then, he wraps a hand around her arm to get her to stand up, and slides his own arms around her, holding her tight by the waist, leaving her little to no room at all to move, with no choice but to take the kisses he presses everywhere on the lower half of her face -not that refusing or resisting his attention crosses her mind even once. 

 

She sniffles, shivers, takes small gasps of air in his hold, feeling him sigh against her. The embrace is overwhelming. She cranes her neck to be sure she'll receive everything he's willing to give, and just a few times quickly rubs her face on his t-shirt to dry her cheeks with a strangled noise.

 

"Are you done?" She hears him ask, then, tone a bit dry, but soft. She can't be sure that he's talking about all the crying, but it seems to be a safe bet that he is. 

 

"No, I'm not!" She shoots back -again, trying to be sharp but only managing to sound small. He almost cuts her off with a smack on the nose. She blinks, hiding her face in his chest.

 

"...how many is enough?" He murmurs on her temple.

 

She has no way to know if he's talking about his kisses or about her tears -either way, the answer is the same: "... _I don't know_."

 

She closes her eyes when he presses his mouth on her brow, gently pushing her hair away -causing another tear to roll down her nose. 

 

"You washed your hair?" He  _notices_ , nonetheless ending the observation as a question. He runs his fingers there while she mumbles back against his chest: 

 

 _"I did_ , I took a shower---"

 

She knows her words must be unintelligible. She can't explain it, but her throat tightens again when she says more about that:

"---it's so hot outside that I reeked again after two minutes in the sun."

 

Getting emotional over the injustice. 

 

Once again not with a whole lot of tact, he grabs her elbow and lifts her arm up, bending to bring his face to her armpit, deadpanning a casual:

"Let me smell--"

 

She promptly lowers her arm back against her ribs, huffing a quiet  _how funny_  that gets a short chuckle out of him, before she hides her face back in his chest. 

She'd be one with him, hide in him if it was possible. It's not, so she can only try to be as close to him as can be, holding him tight against her, tighter than he holds her already. 

 

Silence of another kind is back between them as they stand there in the middle of that small kitchen.

 

Just when she tells herself that she might finally have cried all she could, she feels tears that aren't her own wet her hair at the crown of her head. 

 

Lifting her face, her eyes half-closed, she hears herself say against his shoulder: 

 

"I've thought about you every day."

 

It's as if all this time it had been that simple to say it. She can't remember why she couldn't.

 

His hold tightens around her, so much that he doesn't seem aware anymore that she needs to breathe.  

 

"I couldn't do anything with myself ---without you" she says again, her voice sounding much less certain, particularly when she adds in a whisper, defeated: "...I was  _useless_."  

 

His hands dig hard in her back and waist at those words. 

 

"...what are you talking about," he murmurs. "Don't say that."

 

She tries to leave it alone, but apparently not hard enough, because she ends up insisting.

 

"It's true."

 

He leans back to look straight in her eyes, and there's no tenderness in his expression -his voice remains low, his tone in check, but he's close to bare his teeth at her:

 

"You're free to think that, just don't say it to me.  _I hate it_ , and I don't want to hear it."

 

She presses her lips tight, staring back at him. 

 

He opens his mouth again, thinking better of whatever he was about to say, finally narrowing his eyes as he asks: "...didn't you come all the way here?"

 

He swallows. " _I_  know what it means about you..."; his tone becomes hesitant: "...are  _you_  telling me it doesn't mean anything?"

 

Her chin trembles then, a sudden emotion catching her off guard and mismatching what she says next: 

"...I went a few times to another village before I found this one," she starts, voice cracking: "--one that was like,  _an hour away_."

 

Confusion barely passes over his face before he presses his lips tight to  _very obviously_  keep from laughing -and failing.

 

"...what? ...an hour away,  _how_?"

 

"Don't laugh," she whines weakly, voice wavering. 

 

"I'm not laughing," he protests, laughing.

 

She buries her face against him, her words muffled: "--it was an hour  _by bike_."

 

"-- _oh my God_."

 

"...under that fucking sun," she mumbles again.

 

 His chest shakes from the laughter he tries to contain. "Jesus. Is that why you're so tanned?"

 

"I think it might even have been more than an hour," she finally murmurs. 

 

She barely eats when he serves her a plate of leftovers, cold red bell peppers that Zineb cooked at noon with some bread, and for all the confidence he tried to have about them sharing a meal, he barely eats either. Too much emotion for either of them to be able to handle anything else -or even to talk that much. It's alright, though, the silence is warm again.

 

The night falls without a warning.

 

From where he's sitting, Ben extends his arm and flips the light switch on the wall, turning on a naked light bulb at the centre of the ceiling.

 

"No  _rouge_?" She asks him when he stands up to put the plates in the sink, giving her a severe case of déjà-vu that makes her repress a shudder. 

It's been years since she's cared about what tomorrow will be made of.

 

"No rouge," he repeats, his back to her, quickly washing the plates. "There's no alcohol in this house. Zineb doesn't drink any."

 

It's weird for her to realize, then, that the very real resentment she felt two hours earlier for that woman is completely and absolutely gone now.

 

He's drying the plates a dishcloth in hand when she tells him, watching as he turns around with a frown:

 

"I-- can't go home if it's that dark."

 

He interrupts his task, gauging the weight of what she just said.

 

She expands on that: "I mean there are ---no street lights along a good part of the road, back to--"

 

" _You're not going home_ ," he informs her, but his slight incertitude makes it sound like a question. The next second, he rectifies his whole posture, although he's unable to hide his reluctance.

"...if you want to go home I can walk you there." 

 

"I don't want to." She hesitates. "I just --wasn't sure if you wanted me to stay here, I--"

 

He snorts - _loudly,_  bending a bit with a hand pinching the bridge of his nose. 

 

" _Mon Dieu_ ," he mutters, huffing a short laugh. "You're right, might as well double-check."

  

When he's done with the dishes, he doesn't tell her to follow him. Instead, he turns the light off right before leaving the room, and she jumps to her feet, hurrying behind him. 

 

There's enough light from the moon outside to allow them to see somewhat once their eyes get used to the dark, even in the corridor and taking the stairs to the third floor.

 

Once in his bedroom, he doesn't turn the light on. There's barely any need. 

 

The window is wide open, and a light breeze comes from outside with the singing of the crickets and cicadas, causing her to have a violent déjà-vu once more, of the times they've lain down on the couch back at the house in the evening with the French doors left open.

 

Immediately, she feels the urge to take off her tennis shoes to be barefoot like he is. She's taking them off when he lies down on the single bed near the window without a word, his feet dangling at the end, his hands on his stomach, his head turned to her. 

 

The moonlight bathes half the room. She can't see every detail of his face, but it's not dark to the point that she can't see his expression. 

She finds soon that it's of no use anyway, because he keeps his expression carefully blank when he says  _no_  to her, right when she steps forward to join him. 

 

She stops where she is. 

 

He speaks so softly then, that the words don't immediately reach destination. 

 

"Let me see what's under your dress."

 

When they do reach destination, though, her own flat tone surprises them both. 

 

"Your  _Mom_  is under my dress."

 

A stunned silence follows.

 

Even in the dark she can see his eyebrows slowly go up on his forehead.

 

"...that's where she was all those years?"

 

"Yes."

 

"Okay. Can I say  _hello_  to her?"

 

There's no reason to be shy. But  _Jesus Christ_  if her heart isn't beating fast. He doesn't look nervous, not one bit.

 

Slowly, not even trying to tease, she gathers her dress in both hands, feeling her face heat up. It doesn't make much sense. She's shown him a  _lot_ , and in broad day light. 

 

Somehow, she feels more exposed this time. 

 

He's not even looking at what she's showing him, his eyes fixed on her face. It helps, but it's also unsettling.

 

The moment the fabric is lifted up at her hips, he comments dryly -his voice still low and soft but sounding clear in the quiet: 

 

"Very nice panties," he casually extends his hand, "Can you take them off? ...so I can see them from up close."

 

She could snort.

But she's too nervous even for that. 

 

"Sure," she breathes, rolling her panties down, her dress covering her once more. 

 

She steps out of them, takes a step toward the bed.

 

And hands her underwear to him. 

 

The second it's in his palm, he throws it on the other side of the room. 

 

She's not surprised.

 

" _Thank you_ ," he still says, his tone as flat as ever. "Can I have another look?"

 

He stares back at her, and she wonders if he can hear how uneven her breathing has gotten already as she slowly gathers her dress at her hips once more, the night air hitting the hot, wet skin between her thighs. 

 

Presenting herself.

 

He still pointedly doesn't look down when he says: "Can't see anything from here, come closer."

 

\--moving a hand a bit higher, on his chest, and tapping there. "Here."

 

_To get her to sit there._

 

For a moment, she doesn't move. And he doesn't say another word, face perfectly blank.

 

She inhales, letting go of her dress once more -and takes a final step toward the bed, lifting a leg up to straddle him. 

 

There isn't much room on either side of him to fold her legs, and also, she has to sit on his stomach, which means she can't really completely  _sit_. 

 

So she lets a foot on the floor next to the bed -her attention elsewhere, as his hands are already on her thighs, the muscles flexing under his touch. 

 

She braces herself on his chest, feeling the pad of his thumb graze her inner thigh back and forth under the dress, getting closer each time to where she needs him.

 

The suspense doesn't last long. Turns out he's not trying to actually  _see_  anything. 

 

His head comfortably down on the pillow, looking up at her with the most relaxed stare, he doesn't miss any of the stutters her body does when he starts to very gently rub her clit with a light touch in slow, patient circles.

 

Thighs flexing, her hips move on their own soon enough, and she breathes through her nose, her face hot, his hands busy under her dress while she tries not to be  _too_  obviously desperate, clearing her throat, pressing her lips tight to keep her sighs in.

 

"...all good?" he asks, nonchalant, right as his thumb slides in between her folds, sliding back up entirely coated to roll with ease over her clit, making her huff sharply above him. 

 

" _Yes_ ," she hisses, her eyes shut hard, her fingers planted in his chest. "...good, all good," she repeats, mumbling.

 

Naturally, that's when he stops, bringing his thumb back on the inside of her thigh. 

 

She sighs,  _loudly_ , exasperated.

 

She should have expected it.

 

What she couldn't have expected, however, is what he says to her when she downright glares at him:

 

"---I think it'll be more comfortable for you if you rest on my face."

 

...oh.

 

Because she stares at him, frozen, he calmly asks: 

 

"Did you hear me, Rey?"

 

She clears her throat again. "Um. Yes."

 

"Okay," he goes, adding when he sees that she's still not moving: " _Whenever you're ready_."

 

She narrows her eyes at him, then  _immediately_  gets distracted by his mouth and stares at it, thinking about how it'll feel pressed and pushing against her,  _kissing_  and  _sucking_  her there--

 

\--before that same mouth slowly curls into a smirk when she's apparently already been staring too long at it.

 

With wobbly legs, she crawls over him, planting a knee right next to his head, her other foot still on the ground. Her hands take hold of the metallic headboard and make it squeak as she uses it for balance, to be sure to not actually  _sit_. She feels her face burn while hovering above him, seeing his entire head disappear under her dress and feeling the air get warmer on her cunt as she blindly lowers herself, anticipating the contact, holding her breath--

 

His tongue barely gives her folds a lick that she gasps, surprised, and reflexively moves her cunt away -like she would if she had burned herself trying to enter a bath too soon. 

But his hands just behind her thighs now grab her ass to guide her down to him, fighting her bashfulness -and she feels plush, full lips close on her flesh and give it a good, loud  _suck_.

 

The first of a long make-out session.

 

Head down she stares at her dress, trying her best not to charge against his head, all the wet muffled sounds he makes under the fabric leaving her out-of-breath in less than a minute.

 

She doesn't even pay that much attention to her thighs and how they burn trying not to give in and full on smother him with furious rolls of her hips, her mind soon entirely focused on how his mouth doesn't go anywhere near her clit, letting his nose tease it repeatedly instead.

 

She becomes seriously light-headed hearing how heavy his breathing gets the more he goes, feeling herself gush all over his chin, her left thigh trembling madly as she lets out quiet, breathy  _fuckfuckfuck_  in a room otherwise only filled with the creaking of the bed and the slurping of the mouth she's riding.

 

His hands grope her ass trying to keep her steady on his face, but it becomes increasingly more difficult for him to match her enthusiasm when she soon starts bucking against him with feelings, her face in flames, cursing all she can -so he buckles up and slides his arms around her thighs to hold her firmly down, so determined she has to wonder if he's no trying to suck her soul out of her cunt--

 

-her mouth opens soundlessly, her hand ready to break the headboard in half with her grip as she lets the shocks course along her core, rigid over him until her shaking form rides it out, rubbing the rest of her arousal on his mouth to make sure nothing goes to waste. 

 

Blinking herself back to reality, she catches her breath, arms trembling, and sighs, pushing with her remaining strength on her leg to free him.

 

Her dress uncovers him, and even in the darkness she can see how flushed he is, how hot, chest heaving, the lower half of his face from his nose to his chin shining in the pale light.

 

She made a fucking mess of him.

 

She stands back, a knee on the bed next to him, and looks over at his shorts, finding them in a very tensed predicament.

 

He doesn't miss a beat, his hand finding her ass under the dress and gently petting her. 

 

"Why don't you hop on it," he suggests flatly, voice a bit hoarse, adding as if he was talking about something cooking on the stove: "...I think it's about ready."

 

He himself doesn't make any move to do the big reveal and remove any clothes, and just looks up at her. He clearly wants her to unwrap her present.

 

And she goes to tend to him. 

It's the least she can do. 

 

Her body is still catching up, wetting her thighs, when she delicately pulls on his shorts, his cock bouncing back against him, heavy. 

 

He sighs, mumbling: "Take care of it for me, it's bothering me."

 

She doesn't even gratify that with any kind of response other than planting a knee next to his thigh, straddling him there, before she wraps her hand around him, making him quietly suck in some air.

 

"...here," she says, slowly pumping him, pressing the head lightly and running her thumb there. "Here you go."

 

Right then, she decides to use both her hands, for the show, taking her sweet time, relishing in seeing his chest stutter and his eyes go black at the sight. 

 

"Perfect, thank you," he breathes.

 

She waits just enough for him to repress soft moans at the back of his throat to move up and straddles his hips.

 

With lazy rolls of her hips, she presses his cock down on his abdomen with her cunt and slides back and forth along it, her face closer to his again.

 

Her attention, however, is mainly on how hard he feels against her as she very generously coats him. 

 

This is better in many ways, she can lie down on him, runs her hands under his t-shirt, feel how solid, warm and alive he is under her.

 

She could do this all night. 

 

She looks up, eyelids heavy, panting, getting wetter at the sight of the crease on his forehead, and how tight his jaw is, the feels of his hands gripping her ass.

 

She could do this every day for the rest of her life.

 

His tone is teasing again when he pushes a strand of hair away from her face, breathless, with the hint of a smile on his lips:

"Look at you, how  _determined_..."

 

And she's about to huff, but the building of her second orgasm along with the sudden change of expression on his face makes her listen instead.

 

He breathes  _mon coeur_  at her, lips parted, very serious, running his thumb over her lips -she's not sure what he said, but she knows what it means. 

 

It's more than enough to suddenly make her chase both their orgasms with a fervour she's likely never had for anything else before, rolling her hips again and again until he spits and curses, his back arching while she does the same ---until they pant, spent in each other's arms.

 

She doesn't want to ever let go.

 

Sure, coming twice might have helped, but she doesn't remember the last time she's felt this serene.

 

She lets the slow movements of his chest under her own soothe her. 

 

He's silent for so long that she's certain he's fallen asleep, and her own eyes are closed when she hears his voice reverberate through her, as he simply states, out of nowhere: 

 

"I don't want us to be apart ever again."

 

Cheek pressed against him, she murmurs back without the slightest hesitation:

 

"...me neither."

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [When you're weary](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H_a46WJ1viA)  
> Feeling small  
> When tears are in your eyes  
> I will dry them all
> 
> I'm on your side  
> When times get rough  
> And friends just can't be found  
> Like a bridge over troubled water  
> I will lay me down  
> Like a bridge over troubled water  
> I will lay me down
> 
> When you're down and out  
> When you're on the street  
> When evening falls so hard  
> I will comfort you
> 
> I'll take your part  
> When darkness comes  
> And pain is all around  
> Like a bridge over troubled water  
> I will lay me down  
> Like a bridge over troubled water  
> I will lay me down
> 
> Sail on Silver Girl,  
> Sail on by  
> Your time has come to shine  
> All your dreams are on their way  
> See how they shine  
> If you need a friend  
> I'm sailing right behind  
> Like a bridge over troubled water  
> I will ease your mind  
> Like a bridge over troubled water  
> I will ease your mind
> 
> "Mon coeur" in French literaly means "my heart", a good translation for it would probably be "my love".
> 
> People who made moodboards (Moongrim, Mrex, thetwinsunsoftatooine) for this fic, and people who made fanarts, [selunchen](https://twitter.com/selunchen) and [lilithsaur](https://twitter.com/lilithsaur), THANK YOU. I admire you for your talent and for proving time and time again what amazing human beings you are.
> 
> People who keep doing so much for this fandom [Kate, (slipgoingunder)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slipgoingunder/pseuds/slipgoingunder), [Nancy (Nancylovesreylo)](https://twitter.com/nancylovesreylo) and [KATE again (Bless-my-circuits) ](https://twitter.com/blessmycircuits): THANK YOU. You deserve much more than that -I hope you know how much people appreciate you even if they might not show it enough.
> 
>    
> I've read all your comments, although I haven't been able to reply to them systematically like I used to when I was writing House arrest for instance -to be blunt, I can't keep up because I'm mentally ill and I tire very easily.
> 
> If you could just see the reactions I have reading them, you would know how much they mean to me. All of you who said relating to Rey regarding her depression, I've read your comments and they've made me feel incredible close to you all (on top of worrying the shit out of me ---like holy shit people 95% of us are depressed, that's... _depressing_ ^^)  
> 
>  You've all made this the best experience possible. I'm coming back with a new fic really soon.
> 
> In the meantime, thank you all for reading -and take care of yourselves. 
> 
> (Edit: [Selunchen DID IT AGAIN](https://twitter.com/selunchen/status/1092150207926685697)... one last fanart, guys. Please let her know she's fantastic.)
> 
> (Edit edit: [Yet another fanart, this time by LilibethSonar, CHECK IT OUT PEOPLE THEY'RE SO HAPPY =')](https://twitter.com/LilibethSonar/status/1104013698887307264)

**Author's Note:**

> You guys, I have a [tumblr](https://ao3animal.tumblr.com/) and a [twitter](https://twitter.com/ao3animal)  
> You can find infos there if you're looking for ways to support me
> 
> Say hi =)
> 
> (And this is new: now exists a [spotify playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0zODR0xszxvOsHl2HEbgv7) with the songs used in the chapters' notes of this fic -enjoy?)


End file.
